


Ashes2Honour-OutCasts

by White_Whispers



Category: None - Fandom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 19:36:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11927808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Whispers/pseuds/White_Whispers
Summary: Far from the powerful kingdoms of the Alliance Realms, the lands of the Beyond Realms stand alone in their struggle for power and existance among their neighbouring kingdoms. Dwalica, the kingdom of the proud and ancient Ata'Dor, has been bereft of their king, whose dark secrets are about to surface into the light and have lasting consequences on all involved. Jekor, one of King Agrakain's outcast sons, has plotted for many long years for the Dwalica throne, and has finally put his schemes into motion; murdering the king and all his heirs in a single night and claiming the kingdom for himself. Only Queen Ioveta, with the help of three fugitives, manages to escape the fate intended for her, and seeks refuge in the realm of the DaleLords. Meanwhile, Jekor seeks the life of the only one who is witness to his murder of King Agrakain, unwittingly bringing both parties together in a strong, unified coalition bent on restoring the throne of Dwalica to its rightful ruler.





	1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER I

The caravan of six heavy wagons creaked its way slowly across the rough, tree-stunted plain. The protests of the iron-rimmed wheels and the dull tramp of the mules echoed harshly through the barren air, barely adding life to the dead, abandoned surroundings. The burly caravan master peered up at the unresponsive sky, but the soft light of the twin moons gave him no sense of assurance, nor did the glittering stars give him any hint of what secrets they might hold. Although the night was cloudless, there was precious little light to illuminate the dark road ahead of the wagons; and the man lifted his dim lantern even higher in a futile effort to see ahead into the murky darkness. There seemed to be some malevolent presence hovering over the Black Wastes that night, more so than any other night, that swallowed up the light and left only a feeble shadow in its place. Unease and fear crept through the caravan. Yet despite the close darkness, the master pushed on, making no move to halt and camp for the night. They were in the middle of inhospitable, wilds plains where perils of every description lurked; no one was in the least inclined to stop. Instead, they chose to push ahead with excrutiating slowness, the line of wagons looking very much like a long, black slug picking its languid way across a rocky barren.  
Suddenly, with a broken cry, one of the lead mules stumbled forwards. It scrambled up in the same instant; however, only to utter a strangled bray as it crashed down on its side. The other mule shied back in its traces as fine black dust rose in agitated swirls from the roadside, and refused to budge a step further. With a muttered curse, the caravan master turned back and crouched beside the fallen beast. Raising his lantern, his weathered features sunk in despair as the dim light revealed a thin stream of blood trickling from the dead mule's gaping jaw. A murmur ran through the travellers who had witnessed the scene, and it coursed down the line of wagons, gaining a momentum of fear and impending doom as it passed from one breath to another. They stared blankly at the encroaching darkness that stalked them, and with trepidation in their wide eyes, they waited uneasily for what might follow this unforeseen tragedy.  
"We'll have to spend the night here." the caravan master growled heavily, his mood dampening at the prospect of a sleepless, terror-filled night in the middle of the Black Wastes. He'd had misgivings about this route ever since they had started out nine days ago, but the pay had been good – almost too good – and he desperately needed the coin. "Bring the wagons together." he ordered tersely, hastily lighting several more lanterns with the aid of his own. "Get fires burning; we have wood supplies to keep them burning till dawn. Unhitch the mules and hobble them by the wagons. Don't stray from camp," he added grimly but unnecessarily, "unless you particularily have a death wish."  
Numbly the travellers carried out his instructions. Maybe it was the night shadows, or the feeling of vulnerability, or the fear, but no one dared speak above a whisper. Once the wagons were in place, the mules tethered and the fires burning with bright flames, the people huddled in close groups around the feeble warmth, sleepless and uneasy. The silence of the plains intimidated and awed them at the same time, and most wished they had never taken the caravan, but stayed safely in the forrest cities of Doth Solnoras. Midnight crept by. In the distance, the eerie howl of a wolf rose with shuddering crescendo through the darkness, and the echoes sent chills through the listening travelers. But there was no answering call to the lone, mournful cry, and the shivering, wide-eyed listeners felt confident and assured that a solitary wolf, no matter how desperate, would not dare assault so many.  
A little while later, one of the men rose and picked his way to the edge of camp behind one of the wagons. He was only gone a minute. But as he stepped back into the circle of light, a large shadow reared up behind him. Silver eyes flashed coldly in the dim light. Long yellow fangs gleamed with sinister purpose. Black claws seized the man by the back of his shoulders, forcing his head up to expose his neck and throat. Several people cried out at once in alarm, but they were drowned out by one shrill, agonized shriek that split the silence and made even the shadows tremble as the beast thrust its wolfish snout forward and tore out its victim's throat. Crimson blood splashed everywhere. The creature fell forward as its prey went limp and collasped to the ground, and wet, smacking sounds of tearing flesh sent unrivalled terror through the dazed onlookers as the beast began to gorge on its victim, sating a wild, eternal hunger. Confused, paralized with fear, the travellers remained motionless; their minds in such a state of panic that they couldnt even think to flee.  
Than suddenly, the caravan master grabbed a flaming branch from off the nearest fire, and sprang at the beast with an enraged shout. Cold eyes blazed at him, and claws raked through the air, tearing effortlessly across his chest. The man fell without a cry, and the burning torch in his hand rolled from his lifeless grip towards one of the wagons; small flames began to lick at the wagon wheels, and the mules panicked, breaking away from their tethers and fleeing into the darkness. Blood dripping from its savage jaws in large globs, the beast turned to the terrified people with brutal intent glaring from its eyes. As it stalked towards the cowering forms, something small and blue near its throat caught the light of the fires and sparkled forth with exceptional brilliance. Its significance was lost to the travellers; however, as the beast lunged towards them with a fierce, eager snarl, and utter chaos erupted.  
Terrified into action at last by the presence and fury of the creature in their very midst, the people sprang up and attempted to flee in all directions. The former fears of the night and its encroaching shadows seemed little in comparison to the prospect of being torn apart by those black, slashing claws, and they paid no heed as they ran and stumbled blindly over the unfamiliar, rocky barrens. Many were swiped off their feet before they could run though, and their ensuing screams of agony as their throats were ripped out only spurred the other fugitives into a frenzy as they pushed and shoved their travelling companions aside in mad panic. Some managed to break away from the main camp, leaping over the wagons or crawling beneath them, and scattered towards the dim outline of trees barely visible through the thick darkness. Others, their minds too far gone in panic and fear, ran blind and heedless over the rocks, vainly hoping to put distance between them and their terrifying attacker.  
By now, several of the wagons were engulfed in flames, and one, carrying a load of dangerously unstable phoenix powder, exploded in a ball of bright blue and green flames. By its brief glare, those few who had reached the protective shelter of the copse of trees dared to look back, and against a wall of churning flames the tall, hulking shape of the beast rose like a grim wraith, throwing back its head and letting loose a blood-soaked howl that vibrated across the empty plains with shattering clearness. Sensing that not all had fallen prey to its deadly fangs, the creature loped from the wreckage of the burning wagons and made for the stunted trees. Seeing its dark shape swiftly nearing, the refugees uttered cries of dismay and fright; they turned and rushed into the trees, vainly, desperately seeking some means of escape. But to their chagrin and despair, the trees only led them to a sheer wall of rock that reared like an impenetrable wall over them. Fear sinking its cold talons ever deeper into their hearts, they turned and faced the beast that watched them from a few paces away, apparently enjoying the scent of fear and futility that emanated from them.  
One of the men, a short, fat merchant who had watched his means of wealth go up in a sheet of hot flames, pushed the woman closest to him forward, then turned and frantically scrambled for the cliff-face. The beast lunged forward even as another man tried to drag the trembling woman back into the safety of the others, and the merchant froze in his efforts as a splash of blood landed on the rock beside him. He wanted to shut his ears to the screams and shrieks behind him, close his eyes to the bloodied scenes of death and slaughter he had witnessed back at camp. He grasped the smooth rocks with stubby fingers, gasping as he realized that all had fallen silent behind him. Trembling and sweating, he waited for the final blow, listening to the sound of heavy breathing somewhere in the waiting shadows.  
When nothing happened for several minutes, he risked turning around, and immediately wished he hadn't. His eyes stared at the torn, mutilated bodies of his former companions, and he recognized the face of the woman he had pushed forward while trying to escape himself. Her lifeless eyes glared at him with silent accusation and bewilderment, and her gaping jaw seemed to scream wordless condemnation at his selfish act. The merchant swallowed, shaking so hard his entire body wobbled like a unsteady column. A growl forced his gaze upwards, and he found himself staring into the icy silver eyes of the wolf-like beast. But a flash of brilliant light drew his eyes towards the creature's throat, and the look of fear in his gaze swiftly turned to one of covetousness as he hungrily devoured the elegantly-shaped blue gem socketed in polished gold with silver tracing and suspended by a thin silver chain from a black leather collar studded with bronze shapes of wolf heads.  
Cold, ruthless eyes dragged his gaze unwillingly upwards, and he remembered where he was with a sickening jolt as fangs buried themselves into his shoulder. He gagged and struggled against the freezing pain that flooded his mind and body, and convulsively he clutched for the amulet. No sooner did he feel its icy, unresponsive surface against his clammy hands, then he suddenly screamed with an agony he didn't understand. It was different from the pain of his wounds, more intense and piercing, and the sudden shock of it killed him in the instant. The beast tossed aside his limp body into the thorny shrubs beyond, and raised silver eyes to the answering light of the twin moons. Running a thin tongue along its bloodied lips, the creature swung its head back towards the still-burning ruins of the caravan, sensing that still its task was not done.  
Among the fallen, torn bodies of the slaughtered travellers, one moved weakly. Eyes dulled with pain and blank with horror and despair, stared at the charred, smouldering wagons, and his lips parted in a silent groan of agony as he made another attempt to move. Brutal claws had gouged deep into his chest, his left arm was badly mangled, and one leg, twisted and bleeding heavily, dragged along the ground. But ignoring the grave extent of his injuries, the survivor, with forced effort, managed to crawl awat from the scene just as two of the wagons collasped into flaming wreckage. Without looking back, he dragged himself as far away from the camp as he could before what was left of his strength gave way. He slumped down in the short, tough grey grass, taking wet, shallow swallows of air. Just before unconsciousness claimed him, a dark shape took form in the distance, steadily drawing closer. He couldn't make it out clearly, but he thought he caught the gleam of cold silver eyes, and somewhere in the back of his pain-numbed mind, he felt a vague sense of failure that he had not survived after all.


	2. Chapter 2

Ryos Vosul sat calmly in his ward, focusing the wells of his concentration on the three flickering orbs of blue energy that rested in the palm of one hand. With a single motion of his other hand, he moved them; balancing one on the corner of his hard, narrow bunk, one up by the small alcove of his window, and the other one over there on the very tip of his quill pen. His clear grey-blue eyes kindled with immense, personal satisfaction, and the corners of his lips curved upwards in a brief smile. But a sudden commotion somewhere in the hostel jarred his focus, and the orbs of energy spluttered like candles disturbed by a stiff wind, vanishing quicker then they had come. He frowned. Sighed. Hours of hard concentration – gone! Just like that! Taking a deep breath, he began again.  
Loud voices echoed through the halls outside his ward, and he wondered vaguely what calamity had befallen the premises this time. That vague feeling erupted into raw alarm when his door came crashing inwards; he sprang to his feet in surprise and trepidation as armoured men wearing the royal livery of King Agrakain stumbled into the room. Their captain stepped in with a more dignified air, and glanced around as if he suspected the very room itself guilty of some nefarious crime. No sooner did his eye fall on Ryos, that he pointed towards him, shouting, "There he is! Seize him, men!" His words cracked through the air like whips, and his men surged forward, weapons drawn.  
Me?! Ryos barely had time to think of what he could possibly have done to anger the crown, before dodging the many hands reaching out to grab him. Scrambling across the floor as the soldiers tripped and fell over each other, he reached his table where he kept all his precious assortment of vials, amphoras, decanters, and oddly-shaped jars. A steel-clad hand closed around his ankle, and he heard a man shout out gleefully, "I've got him, Captain!" Grabbing a vial at random, he brought it down on the man's arm with a viscious crack and the splintering of glass. Sticky black liquid spread across the mailed surface of the man's arm, and began to burn through, filling teh room with a vile, neaseous reek. The soldier screamed as the liquid melted through his armour and into his flesh, and his companions made a lunge for their would-be prisoner with renewed effort.  
Ryos, choosing with more precision this time, snatched up a clay jar from his table and hurled it towards the body of fast-approaching men. As it shattered in the air over their heads, spilling vivid blue liquid over them, he brought his fore-fingers together, muttering words under his breath. Fire sprang up from the floor; hungry flames that licked up the strange mixture and curled around the soldiers' legs as they tried in vain to beat it out. With their attention distracted, Ryos made a desperate dive for the door, ducking beneath the captain's outstretched hands and running out into the passage. Whatever these soldiers wanted with him, he certainly wasn't planning to hang around to find out!  
But suddenly a hand lunged out from nowhere (or so it seemed) and closed like a iron vice around his throat, Instinctively, he kicked and struggled, but the firm grip only tightened to the point of strangling him, so he fell limp and sullen in his captor's grasp. "Nicely caught, Toof." the captain's commending tones made Ryos look up, an uneasy feeling twisting his stomach into tight knots. "That's another of those pestilential bastards for the executioner's block." He turned fierce eyes on Ryos, "And I'll make sure you get something special in return for what you did to my men."  
Ryos swallowed hard, not liking the man's threatening tones or the murderous look in his merciless eyes. And had he heard right? Executioner's block?! But...but he'd done nothing wrong! Defiance surged through his veins; will to escape and find out what was really going on fueled him with daring strength.  
"Take him away." the captain ordered with a dismissive wave of his hand, half-turning while he spoke. Ryos felt the grip around his neck loosen slightly, and in that moment, he lunged forward, tearing himself from the soldier's hands. But several men standing guard by the doors raised the alarm as he broke free, and the captain spun around on the instant. His steel gauntlet crashed into Ryos' jaw, and he staggered backwards from the blow, winded and half-senseless. Rough hands jerked him back into their hard, pincer-like hold. "Shackle him!" the ruthless voice of the captain echoed like heavy, tolling bells through his throbbing head.

Ryos awoke, after what felt like an eternity falling through inky black shadows, to cold, hard stone beneath him and an aching jaw. He stirred blearily, the heavy clink of chains bringing him wide-awake. Blinking in the gloom, he glanced around, wondering rather vacantly where he was and why his arms felt so heavy. He tried to sit up, and was instantly pushed back down, while a taloned hand clamped firmly over his mouth.  
"Keep it down, understand?" a deep, empty voice hissed from somewhere close by. "Anything too loud, and the guards will be on us." Ryos nodded, unsure what else to do. He felt the hand slide away, and someone helped him, though none too gently, into a sitting position against the damp, chilling wall. Chains rattled at every move, and looking closely, Ryos made out heavy iron manacles hanging from his wrists and ankles, preventing him from moving very far.  
He looked up, straight into a pair of hollow, black eyes, and for a minute he felt alarm and panic stab through him. But the feel of taloned hands resting warningly on his shoulder, and dark, leathery wings that jutted from the back of the stranger staring at him, quickly brought him to his senses. He let out a pent-up sigh of relief, and his tensed limbs relaxed. The SoulTorn drew back his hand, nodding in silent approval. "You are one of us too?" he asked quietly, his vice void of either sympathy or reproach. "One of King Agrakain's dirty secrets?"  
Wincing at his bluntness, Ryos was forced to give a short nod in answer. "Yes." He gave the stranger a keen look, while asking, "What does the king want with me? What's going on?"  
"We're threats to him, and his throne." another voice; soft, sad and pained, answered as a second figure detached itself from the shadows of the opposite corner. Mournful amber eyes blinked in his direction, "The king has given orders to his guard captain, to round up all his bastards in the city and from other parts of the kingdom, so he can kill them all." She gestured towards the bars of their cell, and Ryos, following the direction she indicated, saw the adjoining cells were occupied with shackled prisoners, all having the same look of blank despair and resignation in their downcast eyes.  
"He is growing old, and he wants the throne to pass on to his eldest without competition." the SoulTorn elaborated. "He wants all evidence of his 'secret' life erased by whatever means possible. He's already silenced the women, now it looks like its our turn."  
Ryos gasped in mingled disbelief and horror, "But that's...impossible! He would have had countless affairs – he couldn't possibly find the results of all of them!"  
"No, but he will try." came the SoulTorn's stoic reply.  
"He's really...going to kill us all..." Ryos repeated dully. That was just outrageous, wasn't it? He glanced around the bare walls of their cell desperately, wishing, no, hoping, that there was some means of escape. The solid, unyielding stones of the wall stared back at him, unresponsive to his frantic searching. And the window was too high up and too narrow to even be considered. Ryos felt his heart sink to the very soles of his boots.  
"There's no escape from the inside." the soft, pained voice of the girl spoke gently into his agitated mind, and he turned to look at her. Despite the dirt of the cell that clung stubbornly to her faded, threadbare dress, and the bruises that covered her bare arms and face, she was actually still quite attractive, Ryos realized with a jolt. Her face was narrow, but delicately formed, with large eyes like polished amber and a tangled mane of honey-coloured hair that must have once been beautiful and silky smooth. She blushed, aware of his gaze, and looked down at her hands, adding almost inaudibly. "But we might have a chance when they take us to be executed."  
The SoulTorn frowned, "Slaughtered, you mean."  
"Well...yes." she agreed slowly. "But we need a plan, don't we? I..." she paused, before adding timidly, "I never got your name." She glanced at Ryos questioningly as she spoke.  
"It's Ryos." he replied, "Ryos Vosul."  
"Nioth Arz." the SoulTorn introduced himself shortly, clearly thinking this wasn't at all necessary.  
She nodded while pointing to herself, "Alviria." Then after a quick glance around to make sure they hadn't attracted the notice of any guards, she continued in a low whisper. "When I was brought in, I overheard the captain say we were all to be executed publicly, like we were criminals. If we can somehow create a diversion, we could use it as a cover to escape."  
"A diversion?" Nioth Arz raised one eyebrow, and he swung his hollow gaze towards her. "Interesting." he mused in completely unenthused tones. "But how?"  
Alviria frowned, "I don't know yet." she admitted hesitantly.  
"I might have a way." Ryos ventured cautiously, not entirely keen on trusting his secret to strangers, even if they were kin of sorts. He took a deep breath as they both turned to him expectantly, before plunging on, "I am what certain people call...gifted. I can use what little magic I know to help us all escape."  
Nioth Arz immediately focused more closely on him, his eyes narrowing down to black slits of churning distrust and resentment. "You're a Caster!" he hissed, hostility vibrating through his tones. "Do you know what your kind has done to mine ever since Mordre unleashed this curse? Not a chance in all SwordSoul are we trusting you with this!"  
Ryos nodded briefly to show that he indeed had heard of the horrors Casters inflicted upon the SoulTorn they captured. "But I'm not one of them!" he insisted earnestly. "Yes, I can use magic, but I'm still a novice...I can't control it properly! I've never used it openly, but I can help you." His agitated, pleading whisper had risen in volume, and he dropped it considerably before adding, "Just trust me."  
The SoulTorn shook his head and glanced at Alviria, apparently expecting her to say something. She considered Ryos for several minutes, then swept her eyes over the other prisoners in the cell across from their's. "We may have little choice." she observed haltingly, as if deep in mental conflict. "Would you rather trust our chance of escape with any of those?" she indicated to the other prisoners, who sat in dejected silence and misery.  
"Of course not! But..." Nioth Arz glared at Ryos before continuing, "You would rather trust this...Caster, novice though he claims to be, who admits he can not even control his powers, with that chance instead?" he asked doubtfully.  
"If that's our only way..." she replied in strained tones, "If not him, then do you have another plan? A better plan?"  
The SoulTorn sighed, and Ryos felt his icy breath against his face. "No, I do not." he relented at last. "But if he betrays us, I will rip out his throat myself." He turned back to Ryos, "Do you understand?"  
"Y-yes." Ryos nodded, feeling shudders skitter up his spine as he felt those hollow eyes bore mercilessly into his own. He drew his knees, with some difficulty, up to his chin, and hugging his legs, wondered how he could provide a distraction large enough to allow him and the rest of the prisoners time to escape. He cradled his battered jaw in the dip of his knees, staring absently at the rough, grime-coated floor. Honestly, he knew very little about his 'gift' as he had heard Casters call it. He had tried to listen in on Casters at inns as they spoke, but had little except that they repeated over and over again that all magic came at a price. His mind wandered back to his ward in the hostel, and he found himself smiling as he recalled the three orbs of energy he had manged to not only summon, but also move them around.


	3. Chapter 3

"Seems to be quite the crowd this morning." Xonar Tvol observed from the balcony of the inn where he and his band lingered over the remains of breakfast. He sipped his coffee slowly, his eerie gold-yellow eyes travelling over the tightly-clogged streets below. Everyone seemed greatly excited about something, he noted to himself, sensing the great air of expectancy that hung about their eager expressions and hurried, almost impatient, steps.  
Arvoz'Tion barely spared a glance up from his plate as he replied disdainfully, "Diz iz a big zity, dhere are alvayz crowdz." His words, spoken in rusty Blaideish, were slurred by his Vakaric accent and his race's natural difficulty in speaking any language but their own. "Vi vill be leavin vor deh open road today, yez?" he asked hopefully.  
"That's doubtful." Xonar replied with slight amusement lurking on the edge of his words. "We have nothing pressing to do since we completed our last contract, so I thought you would all appreciate a short rest." His 'all' included a male Outlander sitting to his left and watching the milling crowds with alert eyes, a female Mystanesse from the Alliance Realms across the Shroud Sea, and a male Tor-Xiith who also hailed from the powerful alliance of kingdoms south of the Beyond Realms. He brought his patient eyes back to Arvox'Tion, "Another day or two here isn't asking a lot, is it now?"  
The Vakaric scowled, "I no like diz zity." he grumbled into his plate.  
"And I no like the looks of that crowd." Hath interjected, mimicing Arvox with an arrogant grin and harvesting a withering glare from his direction. "They seem far too expectant for me to be comfortable with."  
"There's an execution taking place at highsun." the Mystanesse replied calmly, without stirring or lifting her lidded eyes. "Word is a group of recently convicted criminals will be executed publicly in the market square. People here seem attracted to such scenes, like it was sport or something." She paused before adding indignantly, "Back in Mystana, executions are seen as a dishonourable death, and a warning to others."  
Tvol nodded in agreement, "The Beyond Realms differ from those in the Alliance on more then one area. Dwalica is not a very stable kingdom at best, it reminds me too much of Aradomoria back home."  
Hath gave him a puzzled look, asking himself how an exiled Tethdorian could speak of Aradomoria as being 'back home', since Tethdoria had little dealings with the treacherous Aradomorians. "Any rumours about this execution?" he asked, knowing from past experience that I'soro discerned much of what might lurk beneath a flowery flourish of words. "Are they really criminals?"  
She blinked dark amethyst eyes towards him, "No, unless you look at them in the eyes of King Agrakain, who sees any threat to his throne as criminal." Lowering her voice considerably, she went on, "I have heard that the king is rounding up as many of his bastard children as he can find, and executing them under false charges to prevent any threat to him or his heir."  
"Sounds more like a threat to his reputation, not his throne." the Tor-Xiith, who had been silently examining the dry leaves Hath was using to brew his tea, now observed with a distracted frown. "Isn't he praised for his generosity and compassion kingdom-wide?"  
Hath nodded, "Yes; so the presence of bastard children would bring his reign into serious question. A man like Agrakain wouldn't want to be remembered as someone who frequented brothels in the dead of night or forced palace servants into his bed. There are even whispers that he murdered his first wife, aren't there?" He glanced towards I'soro for confirmation while reaching for another syrup-drenched slice of sweet bread.  
"And his second wife too." she agreed, a slight frown of revulsion shadowing her cold features. "He married for the third time about five years ago, so the days of Queen Ioveta are numbered as well, no doubt."  
"But vhy?" Arvox'Tion was clearly puzzled.  
"Many men – not just kings – think they can do as they please, without having to deal with the consequences of their actions." Xonar answered, a thoughtful frown puckering his weathered brow. "Men have a natural desire for power, and that hunger, if not wisely held in check, quickly grows into an unsatable longing which will control that person's life, ruining him and many others. No kingdom in SwordSoul, despite steps taken to avoid such tragedies, is free of the scourge of men who are governed solely by their wild ambitions. King Agrakain is only one of many."  
I'soro nodded in silent agreement. And for several minutes, no one said anything. The only sound was the chatter of the churning crowds and the distant murmur of the city around them.  
"I think," Xonar Tvol mused, his tone slow and meditative, "that I will go see this execution at highsun."  
"Vhat?!" Arvox'Tion spluttered, glancing up sharply in surprise. "Vhat vor?"  
I'soro looked down, "Tvol..." she began uncertainly.  
"I have a...premonition, that this execution will not proceed as smoothly as all expect it to." Tvol replied, silencing their protests with a stern look. "I'm curious to see what will really happen."  
"Curious?" Sorak-Boko repeated, his reptilian eyes swiveling around to examine the Tethdorian as if he was a strange plant.  
"And if something happens?" Hath asked skeptically.  
Xonar shrugged, "I will merely observe, nothing more." He gave the Outlander a crooked smile, "Let's just say that in my ten years of exile here, I have picked up the bad influence of curiosity."  
Hath shook his head woefully, "A curious Tethdorian...how far you have fallen, my friend. But – 'he grinned and nodded suddenly, - 'that's a good idea! I'm coming with you. I want to see how well your premonition serves you."  
"I'll stay here." Sorak decided without much hesitation. "The Ata'Dor do not look well upon my race, and I am not comfortable among their ignorant stares. If the sun remains out," he squinted murky green eyes skyward, "I will go out and collect herbs outside the city. I saw lush patches of moonbalm and inlaas out there when we rode in last evening."  
Arvox'Tion narrowed luminous vermeil eyes towards the streets, and shook his head adamantly. "I vill ztay vid Zorak."  
"I...think I will just take a walk." I'soro answered, uneasiness in her eyes and anxiety in her voice. "I feel something is not right in the breeze, and I have no interest in the strange customs of these people...finding entertainment in slaughter." She raised her eyes, and seemed relieved when Tvol, after a moment's hesitation, nodded his assent.

"How many did you round up?" King Agrakain inquired as he struggled to fasten his richly embroidered surcoat over his portly frame. At fifty-two, he was no longer the dashing, handsome man he had been in his earlier years; he was going bald and what little hair he had left hung in thin, lank strands of dull, lifeless grey, while his eyes had sunk into his skull and were partly hidden by folds of flabby skin that made him look more like a prime boar fattened for the feast rather then a outwardly dignified king. He peered at himself in the tall mirror, twisting and turning so much to get a perfect view of himself that the stitching down one side burst with a sudden sound of tearing cloth and wrenched thread. "That useless oaf of a tailor!" he hissed under his breath, ripping the whole thing off in a fit of vexation. "WELL?!" he bellowed, swinging around to face his captain in time to see him gulp down on the tail-end of his amused grin. "How many, you fool?"  
"Twenty-six, sire." the man replied smoothly, hastily concealing his amusement under a guise of stern attention. "The crowds are gathering in the market square, and the prisoners are being conveyed there as we speak. We wait only for your arrival."  
"I'm not going to the execution, you dolt!" Agrakain retorted, his voice laced with irritation as he surveyed the other garments his servants had laid out for him before being curtly dismissed. He scowled, noting the position of the sun in the sky through the window, and with a muttered curse, just hurried into whatever he could lay his hands on.  
"You're not go – what do you mean?" Captain Jekor blinked in confusion as sudden panic spread into his eyes. He rubbed his hands in agitation for several minutes, casting nervous glances at the king.  
"Exactly what I said! Are you deaf this morning?!" his liege fumed, swinging his gold-trimmed cloak over his shoulders and fumbling for the heavy clasps with clumsy fingers. "I have a matter of great importance to attend to! I can't be bothered to oversee the execution of a few beggarly outcasts. Oversee it yourself!"  
Jekor's expression fell in decided anxiety and alarm, "But what about the people?" he tried desperately to avoid this unforeseen turn of events. "They will be expecting you."  
"To the Nameless Darkness with that damned rabble!" Agrakain growled, finality in his tone. "Now listen well, Jekor." he suddenly swung to face him, his beady eyes ablaze with a fierce, almost savage light streaming from them. "I'm going down to the 'Shady Moon Arbour', and I don't want to be disturbed in the slightest till I get back. So you get out there and keep those mindless peasants under control and well entertained."  
"Still able to seduce the women with your looks?" Jekor joked, well guessing what 'important matter' the king would have at the mentioned establishment.  
"Ha, yes! They fall for me every time. I guess getting old still has its benefits." Agrakain laughed hoarsely. He pulled his hood over his face, "Now remember my orders; tell the people I'm ill, or indisposed, or something, just to keep them from eternally yammering after me." As he finished speaking, he stepped to a side door in his chamber, and before the captain could say anything more, disappeared beyond it.  
Jekor stepped slowly into the hall, deep in some dark thoughts of his own scheming. He glanced up, and hurried towards a familiar-looking officer who was lounging against a pillar, rolling a dice absently in his hand while chewing on a long bit of straw. "Redcrow!" Jekor's urgent tones made him snap to attention, and he hurriedly whisked away his plaything while eyeing his captain with guilty expectancy.  
"Toof, listen to me carefully." Jekor instructed, his voice tense with earnest desire. "His Majesty has been called away on a matter of great importance, and I am to escort him. It falls to you to ensure the executions proceed as planned. If the people clamour for the king.." he paused in indecision before going on hastily, "tell them he is gravely indisposed."  
The officer nodded vigorously, "Of course, sir, you can count on me." He agreed, no doubt relieved at avoiding the trouble he had been dreading.  
"Very good." the captain turned to leave, adding over his shoulder to hide the slow, satisfied smile that spread across his face, "When the day is over, Dwalica will be a new kingdom, and you will have your place in it."


	4. Chapter 4

Highsun. The market square of Hudarrak, capital city of the kingdom of Dwalica, was choked with crowds of people from all classes and crafts, eager, alert and shivering with anticipation. Guards in the royal livery of the king stalked along the outskirts of the square, watchful for any troublemakers who might be present. On a raised scaffolding in the center, and bristling with more guards, the executioner and his assistants went over last-minute preparations. To the side stood large iron cages, set on rickety carts, where the miserable prisoners awaited their grim fate amidst the jeer and scorn of the onlookers.  
"You know what you have to do?" Nioth Arz, his hollow eyes staring absently over the spectators, asked without turning his head.  
Ryos nodded with more confidence then he felt. "Yes. Don't worry," he added, seeing a skeptical expression cross the SoulTorn's gaunt features. "It'll work."  
"I do not know which fate is worse." Nioth replied cynically. "Being put down like I was a rabid dog...or trusting whatever may await me in the future to the hands of a novice Caster." His black, empty eyes swung around to focus on Ryos; his keen gaze searching the other's eyes with uncomfortable precision. He turned away after several minutes, the ghost of a pale smile lingering at the very edge of his features. "I guess we are about to see."  
Alviria, who had been silent and cowering ever since the guards had dragged them from the dungeon, winced at the cold indifference in his voice. "Nioth," she ventured in painful hesitation, her amber eyes holding a haunted look that Ryos had noticed before. "Be nice...at least once...if this is our last hour." she begged in halting phrases.  
The SoulTorn shrugged, but he said nothing more. His attention was drawn towards a group of mounted soldiers approaching the scaffold. A murmur rippled through the gathered crowds as they strained forward for a glimpse of their king, and disappointment showed plainly on their faces as they realized he was not among the riders. One of the soldiers urged his horse to mount the scaffold, facing the expectant crowds. Silence descended over them as they sensed something important was about to be said.  
"Thievery! Banditry! Treason!" the soldier shouted, leaning forward in his saddle while pointing a hand behind him in the direction of the prisoners, making sure his voice carried to the very edges of the crowd. "These are the crimes of these desperate knaves and villains, who do all they can to disrespect and scorn the laws of our most beloved king!" His words harvested cries of indignation from the crowd, and he went on, apparently enjoying his speech as much as the people were. "King Agrakain has been generous! And merciful, giving them countless opportunities to mend their ways! But he can no longer ignore their defiance and their vile deeds, which are a threat to all Ata'Dor!"  
"So, which are you – the thief or the bandit?" Nioth Arz observed, flicking one eye towards Ryos in icy humour.  
"Most likely the thief." he replied after a exaggerated moment of thought.  
Nioth gave him a condescending look. "You look like one too."  
"Which makes you the bandit." Ryos added, keeping a straight expression. The SoulTorn frowned and shot him a withering glare.  
Meanwhile, Toof had finished his long stream of ranting, and now that the ire of the people had been aroused, he went on. "Unfortunately, the king is gravely indisposed' – gasps and mutterings from the crowd – 'but he has ensured that this execution will go on, as a warning to any others who might harbour thoughts to exploit his generosity. Bring out the prisoners!" he ordered sharply.  
The guards jumped to obey, and with rough commands and careless blows, herded the prisoners from the cages and lined them up to the scaffold. Ryos positioned himself around the center of the row, and ignoring everything else, forced his mind to focus. The voice of the soldier as he denounced the prisoners faded into the background, and the angry, indignant faces of the jostling crowd seemed to warp away from his vision. Once again, he called upon the strange powers that rested within him, and felt his blood throb and quicken as they answered his summons. Thin tendrils of flickering blue light lashed across his mind. Quickly he marked possible targets with his eye as the first prisoner was pushed forwards; a rippling pennant over by a merchant stall, the royal banner billowing in the wind beside the scaffold, a lightless lantern swinging feebly over the door of an inn. As the first prisoner approached the block, utterly limp and deprived of will, Ryos whispered words under his breath.  
A brilliant flash lit up the sky. Blue flames exploded from the king's banner; the force knocking nearby guards from their feet and throwing the horses into a panic. The crowd drew back; horrified. People screamed. Then, as the pennant caught fire and the lantern blazed with luminous flames, utter chaos and terror took them, and they scattered in all directions, heedless of those they pushed aside and trampled down. The guards fought to get their flaying horses under control, while the banner continued to burn with quick, fierce flames. At first, the prisoners had remained motionless, stunned. But then someone from their midst screamed wildly, 'Run!', and they turned and fled whichever way they could, dodging their scrambling, confused guards and disappearing down dark alleys and gloomy backstreets.  
Safe up on the balcony of a nearby counting house, Xonar Tvol and his companion had watched it all in silence. "An interesting turn of events." The band leader observed, brow creased in contemplation. His yellow eyes flickered with mingled curiosity and concern as he remarked, "The whole city will be talking about this for moons, no doubt."  
"It will also be alive with patrols searching for all those escaped vagrants." Hath reminded him with slight apprehension in his voice. "What was that anyway? Was there a Caster somewhere there?"  
"Hmm, no." Tvol shook his head. "I think not. I know only little of them, but enough to notice that that display of magic, though extremely potent, was done rather hesitantly, as if the one who cast it was not entirely sure of their own ability." His eyes narrowed down to mere slits of burning, golden light as he watched the square empty in chaos and panic; keeping one eye on a trio of prisoners who seemed to prefer sticking together instead of scattering like the rest. "I think one of those prisoners is gifted."  
Hath studied the Tethdorian's lean, impassive features, trying to determine where the thoughts of his captain were. "What are we going to do?" he asked at length, throwing a glance towards the empty square where the royal banner pole stood stark and naked, devoid of its gleaming vestments, whose ashes were now irrecoverably lost to the wind.  
"Us?" Tvol raised one eyebrow, his thoughts still dwelling on other matters. "Back to the inn; I think we will be leaving Hudarrak sooner then even Arvox'Tion guessed. The king will probably hire mercenaries to help hunt down those fugitives, and I have no wish to comply. I think we will make for the Dale, provided we can charter a decent ship.  
"But why not look for passage to the Dale from here?" Sorak-Boko questioned, puzzlement making his naturally raspy tones crack as they sat back in the inn, discussing their journey plans over mugs of hot, spiced cider. The Tor-Xiith sipped his drink with customary caution while his murky green eyes blinked towards Xonar with bright inquiry.  
Hath, who thought he'd grasped the reason behind Tvol wanting to seek passage across the Crimson Sea from another port, replied quickly. "Because the inspection on ships here will be tightened due to the fugitives, and you forget one of our companions is a Shadow'mancer." he reminded Sorak rather pointedly, as if expecting him to keep that fact in the front-most ranks of his memory.  
"Vhere vi go vor a zhip dhen?" Arvox'Tion frowned, already quite sure he'd spent enough time in these stifling Ata'Dor cities to last him two Vakaric lifetimes.  
"Raurosa." Xonar Tvol replied, not seeming to notice the expression of utter chagrin that fell across the Vakaric's features. "We'll leave as soon as I'soro gets back, so be sure our horses are saddled and well watered."  
Hath glanced around with a distracted frown, "She's not back yet?" He eyed Tvol, concern lurking in the depths of his grey eyes. "Was it safe to let her wander the city alone? I though she'd be back long before us."  
"So did I." Xonar answered slowly.  
"You don't think..." Sorak began apprehensively. But before he could get any further, there was a sudden noise at the door, which flung inwards so hard the hinges screamed in protest. It was a good thing too, that the common room was empty at that time, otherwise suspicion and alarm would have arisen at the slender form swaying unsteadily in the doorway. Blood and dirt clung to I'soro's leather armour, and trickled down one arm, dripping from her clenched fist to the floor as she staggered forward. Hath was the first to spring to his feet, concern giving way to mingled relief and anxiety. The Shadow'mancer turned anguished eyes towards Xonar as she stood undecided, and bnoken words spilled form her pain-clenched lips as she suddenly pitched forward: "Tvol...I'm sorry!"

Jekor navigated his way without pause through the maze of streets in one of Hudarrak's rich, upperclass districts, his pace hurried but calm. A fell light, one of deep hatred and yet strange relish, burned in his quick, alert eyes as he turned suddenly down a dim alley. With his hand resting easily on his swordhilt, he progressed at a more cautious, stealthy pace, like some beast stalking its oblivious prey. The alley took a sharp turn and then forked, one way leading towards a low, but well-kept building where a dim lantern swung lazily over a sign which read in spidery characters 'Shady Moon Arbour', while the other narrow path yawned dark and forbidding to the left, no doubt leading deeper into the city's underworld.  
Rge guard captain turned to the right, and slipped into the shadows as two figures appraoched from the direction of the silent building. He shivered in supressed excitement, leaning forward to catch anything that might be said between the two individuals. While he kept his right hand near his swordhilt, he slowly withdrew a short dagger from the back of his belt with his left hand. Thus prepared, he waited.  
King Agrakain, one arm tightly secured around the waist of his companion – a slim, fair-haired and scantily clad woman – staggered down the alley with unsteady steps. His disheveled appearance and flushed, languid expression gave testimony to his wine-muddled, sated condition, and he gave no notice at all to his surroundings; otherwise, he would have noticed the cold flash of steel as a man stepped swiftly from the shadows. Before either of them could fully realize what was happening, Jekor slipped behind the woman, and stabbed her up to the hilt in the belly. Her eyes widened. Her lips parted in a silent scream of agony and fear as she crumpled over, clutching at her wound as blood ran in rivers to the ground. Jekor pushed her forward; and as his blade, wrenched free from her body, dragged across her throat, she managed a weak, choking gasp before collapsing.  
"What's the meaning of this?" Agrakain demanded, the sight of blood leaving him cold sober. Anger, not at the death of the whore, but rather at this sudden termination of his giddy pleasures, laced his tone and kindled the ire in his gaze. "I told you explicitly I was not to be disturbed!" he shouted, recognizing his guard captain at last.  
Jekor wiped his dagger clean and turned to face his irritated king, a secretive smirk lingering at the corners of his lips. "Don't worry, your grace, you won't be disturbed in the slightest." He replied evenly, toying with his dagger. He looked Agrakain in the eyes, and the murderous look in his glare drained all the colour from the king's face.  
"What...?" Agrakain stammered, backing away with a feeling of dread growing in the back of his mind. "What do you mean?"  
"Your reign is at an end." Jekor answered, finality ringing through his voice. "But don't worry, you will be leaving this world with that knowledge that I will end the legacy you began. I will ensure that not one drop of your blood remains to ever stain the royal throne again, or spread its dark influence over those you forced it upon. I will cleanse Dwalica of your seed, and begin a new bloodline that will bury all you have done in a sea of obscurity. I will have you remembered as the king you really were; a murderer, a seducer and robber of women's dignity, a liar, and the pitiful father of countless bastards!"  
Agrakain laughed scornfully, "You've never lacked ambition, Jekor. But all your grand plans are useless – no one will accept your claim to my throne."  
"Oh on the contrary...father," Jekor replied in icy tones, enjoying the look of terror that planted itself firmly across the king's ashen face. "All will accept my rule, either by force or of their own willingness."  
"You'll never get away with usurping the true heir to the throne!" Agrakain retorted with the desperation born of real, livid fear. "You won't live a day as king! The High Court will never accept your damned claim!"  
"The High Court?" Jekor laughed as if it was no consequence to him what they thought. "I don't need those fools! But I've wasted enough time here with you; I have a kingdom to claim." He flipped his dagger around so that the blade pointed downwards. "Any last words before I send your black soul screaming to the deepest rifts of the Abyss?"  
Agrakain swallowed so audibly the sound seemed to echo through his nose. His eyes darted around in his round, flabby face, his expression tight and pale, and his fat lips quivered like dead leaves in a brisk wind. He glared at Jekor, "You arrogant traitor!" he hissed through clenched teeth. Foolishly, he tried to lunge at the man, who instead of dodging aside, sprang forward to meet him. His blade stabbed deep, straight for the king's heart, and Agrakain's groping hands clutched at empty air as his heavy body sank down, a weak cry gurgling down in his throat as blood drowned his lungs. Jekor jerked his dagger out, disregarding the fresh spray of blood that coated the front of his cuirass and sprinkled across the ground. He stared down at Agrakain with hard eyes, a slight sneer on his face. "Burn for eternity in the Abyss, fool." He turned to leave, but his eye caught the shadow of a figure, standing motionless at the fork in the alley. A frown of annoyance crossed his face, and he took a closer look, feeling unseen eyes glaring at him with aroused hatred and long-buried resentment.  
"Who's there?" he demanded stiffly, searching the figure's dark garb for some emblem of recognition. "Who are you?"  
The silent figure neither replied to his demands, nor moved either in retreat or advance. Dark amethyst eyes gleamed at him from the depths of a low-drawn hood, and Jekor read wordless accusation in their unwelcoming voids. He scowled, irritated by this sudden smear in his flawless scheme. He could not afford any witnesses. Grasping the hilt of his dagger, he lunged forward, hoping to strike down this silent interloper with one swift blow. But his blade stabbed at empty air. Annoyed and surprised, he glared about; his eyes narrowing as he focused on the stranger standing a few paces away to his left, two slender blades gleaming coldly in the gloom. Jekor snorted in derision and made another lunge, frustrated that his opponent made no attempt to strike back. But their practised evasion of his blows convinced him this was no casual passerby, and he grew even more determined to ensure that they never left the alley alive. He struck at the figure again and as they dodged once more, he drew his sword in anticipation of the move. As he recovered from the movement, he saw the stranger agilely scale the wall of a nearby building, disappearing over the edge. He sucked in his breath angrily. His eyes fell to his sword as if it was to blame, and a gleam of satisfaction crossed his face as his gaze traced the bright streak of blood splashed along the edge of the blade. It would be enough. With a last look towards the stiff corpse of Agrakain, he turned and vanished into the shadows of the alley.


	5. Chapter 5

A broad, leaf-shaped lamp, suspended by a thin silver cord from the domed ceiling, swung slowly back and forth. Its soft beams of golden light, sweetened with the soothing smell of warm, herb-infused oil, danced across the wide, one-room tent. From outside, the mournful notes of an ashwing wren broke the still silence of the wilderness day, and was answered by the low, eerie calls of jackals in the distance. A gust of wind rustled along the stout canvas walls, buckling against the flexible sides in vain protest of their unyeilding presence.  
Keo L'nar winced in his sleep, troubled shadows disturbing the quiet depths of his rest. The lamplight, in its solitary, swaying dance, swung across his fever-paled but noble features, and he blinked without opening his eyes at the sudden intrusion of light. Thin tendrils of darkness reached out into his mind, drawing him back to their oblivious embrace and the empty solace they held out. He hesitated, feeling again that brief touch of passing light, and the sweet aroma in the air that slowly sent the shadows cringing and grovelling back. He blinked again; deep grey eyes squinting against the sudden glare and struggling to focus on his unfamiliar surroundings.  
Where was he? Blurred, incoherent images flashed with blinding rapidity through his fever-dulled mind. He remembered the caravan...they had chosen to keep on going through the night; no one had wanted to camp right in the middle of the Black Wastes. But, one of the mules had suddenly collapsed for no apparent reason, forcing them to stay the night – and what a terror-drenched night it had turned out to be! He felt icy shivers crawl up his spine at the memory, and thought he could still hear the screams echoing in his mind. That terrifying beast...he thought he remembered seeing it come for him at the very end of his strength. So...how was he still alive? And his wounds, he couldn't feel the awful, racking pain anymore; it was as if they had never been there in the first place. And more importantly, where was he?  
He glanced around curiously. By the light of the oddly-shaped, swinging lamp, he discerned that the tent was plainly, but well furnished and with calculated neatness. The ground was covered with carefully placed hides, and the canvas walls were hung with the decorated pelts of animals, mostly wolves, and the shaggy manes of the native plains elks. There was a carved chest, long and studded with brass rings, set along one wall, and a low table, cluttered with vials of all sorts of shapes and sizes, stood beside the entry. Keo himself lay on the floor, on a base mat of woven grass, covered with a substantial bear pelt, and with several fur blankets over him.  
As he lay quiet, pondering his strange, yet somehow reassuring, surroundings, the tent flap rustled, drawing back to admit a tall, bearded but bald-headed man. He was lean about the waist, like a frail sapling almost, and his shoulders narrow like the edge of a blade. His eyes, however, were piercing and alert, bright sockets of burning, searching flames that seemed to hold a depth of strength and fortitude that his body seemed to outwardly lack. A long robe, woven of rough goats hair, fell loosely from his spindly shoulders, tapering at his waist by a wide girdle, which was half-concealed by the wold, unseemly growth of his exceedingly scraggly beard. This singularly skeleton-like figure was closely followed by that of a woman, who's hefty frame stood out in sharp contrast to that of her companion. Clad like him in a robe and wide girdle, she moved with a fluid stride that bespoke of agility not usually attributed to one of her girth. The two of them, on entering the tent, glanced towards Keo with a familiarity formed out of habit.  
"Ah, you are awake at last, and livid too by the clear light in your eyes." the man declared in fluent Blaideish, strange satisfaction vibrating through his thin, piping voice. He lowered himself onto the floor, crossing his legs and watching Keo with suspicion masked by warmth in his eyes. "But no doubt you are wondering where you are?" At Keo's slight, incomprehensive nod, the man rested his gnarled hands across his bony knees and tilted his head. "You are in the keeping of the Dunez. I am Sha'luk, the 'avinkush' of this tribe, and this," he jerked his long chin towards the stoic-faced woman behind him, who looked as welcoming as the Black Wastes and built rather like a blacksmith's hammer. "is our healer, Hil'gras. She tended your wounds, and the resulting fever, for nine days since our hunters came across you and the remains of your caravan."  
Keo winced inwardly; the thought of a healer who looked more fit to be a butcher, tending his stinging wounds with those thick, horny fingers was neither appealing or pleasant. But he nodded his gratitude, keeping his expression neutral. "Were there any other survivors?" he asked, hoping against the grim answer he already knew would meet his inquiry.  
"Only you and the girl." Sha'luk replied, seeming not to notice the look of utter surprise that crossed his young patient's face. "The hunters said they checked the other bodies, but the carrion were already beginning to pick at them. They found you, and the girl, some distance from the main site of slaughter; you were gravely injured, but she was strangely unharmed. I read the signs that you tried to protect her by whatever feeble means you could, most commendable...for an Outlander."  
As noble as it sounded, Keo found himself shaking his head. Ignoring the insult against his people, he answered, "Forgive me elder, but I don't know what you're talking about. There was no girl in the caravan, some women yes, but no girls."  
"Oh?" the avinkush, or elder as Keo had rightly interpreted through his learning of the Dunez tongue, arched his eyebrows in surprise. "This is rather puzzling then. Maybe you suffer from the effects of the fever, and can't remember. The girl, too, has no memory of the attack, or anything before it. But if you are feeling well enough, I will take you to her, perhaps you will remember something that way." He rose stiffly from his knees and nodded to the healer.  
Hil'gras crossed over to the chest, opened it, and withdrew a small bundle of neatly folded clothes. "They have been washed, and mended." She informed Keo, placing them on the ground beside him. Her voice was dull and flat, and had the effect of iron ringing against the iron. "No doubt you will feel more comfortable in your own garb." Unsmiling and stiff, she slipped from the tent, leaving the elder to hastily bridge the silence that followed her aloof manner.  
"Many Dunez still remember the old war." he explained uneasily, a dark frown crossing his face, as if the mention was distasteful to him. "We are uncomfortable with strangers, not out of mistrust I assure you, but from guilt. I'm sure you've heard about it, Outlander?" he raised one eyebrow questioningly.  
"The Bleeding Skies War?" Keo asked, slipping his tunic over his head and tugging it into place. "When the Dunez betrayed the DaleLords to the Siik?"  
The elder frowned deeply, almost scowling. "That is how some remember it." he answered bitterly. "You would do well to not speak of it here, Outlander; our dark legacies are none of your concern. Are you ready?" he asked, eager to change the topic. He motioned towards the tent flaps. "Come, this way."  
Keo stepped from the tent, squinting a little as the bright moonlight met his eyes. He glanced around curiously; the Dunez seemed to have staked out a large area for their camp, and their dome-shaped tents were erected all around, each with their own smouldering fires and racks for skinning and preparing meat. Not many seemed to be around at this time, though Keo attributed that to the fact it was night. He had no time for a scenic, leisurely look-around though, for the elder led the way swiftly to another tent on the far side of camp. Here he halted, drew aside the flap, and waited for Keo to enter before following him in.  
"Ah, she is awake." he observed, indicating a slim, nubile girl with dark locks of smooth, long hair cascading in ebony rivers down her shoulders and back. Large, icy silver eyes stared, first at the elder, then turned blankly towards Keo, from the depths of a narrow, high-boned face. Sha'luk extended a shallow smile towards the girl, "I believe she suffers from the traumatic assault on the caravan, for she cannot recall even her own name." he remarked in undertones meant for Keo's ears only, but the way the girl looked at him made the Outlander suspect she had heard as well. "Look at her closely." the elder instructed, "Do you recognize her at all? Even slightly?" He stood back, watching the young man's expression closely, patiently.  
Keo L'nar obeyed; he felt a vague sense of recognition in the back of his mind, like he was looking at something all too familiar. But beyond that, the girl was as much a stranger to him as he was to her. "I have never seen her before." he stated firmly. "There was no one like her in the caravan...maybe she was a lone traveller who happened upon the caravan after the attack." he suggested doubtfully. "How was she clad? Did she have any emblem on her that might be helpful?"  
"She was not." Sha'luk replied with a shake of his wild beard. "Its possible she might be a runaway slave from a Siik caravan, or a traveller lost in the Black Wastes due to some misfortune. But we concluded that since she was with you, she was only your fellow traveller."  
Keo frowned in consternation. What in all SwordSoul would a girl, naked and helpless, be doing in the dead of night, deep in the Black Wastes? "Was whatever attacked us...was it found?" he asked slowly, glancing towards the elder questioningly.  
"No; it killed to sate an inbred nature and left, as my hunters read from the ground." Sha'luk answered, his thin voice troubled and anxious. "We don't know what manner of creature it was, or whether it still lurks around or has skulked deeper into the Wastes. And its best if we don't extend warriors in search of it. This is a small tribe, and like all Dunez, we do not linger in one place for very long." He motioned to Keo, and they stepped outside once more. "You will remain with us till you have recovered your strength, then you must depart for your own lands, Outlander." Sha'luk instructed, a slight frown creasing his brow as he spoke. He glanced sideways at the young man, considering him with an almost hostile look. "Where was that caravan going, that it was so foolhardy as to cross the Black Wastes without a guard?"  
"Suuth Vidas, in the Dale." Keo replied, running one hand along his chin, partly covered with a small beard matching his dark hair, in contemplation. "They started from Evermyst, in Doth Solnoras, and decided to take the road through the Black Wastes to avoid conflict with the Siik."  
Sha'luk nodded, but the expression on his face was unreadable. "And you?" he inquired after a moment's pause.  
"Me?" Keo responded with some measure of surprise, and also indecision in his voice. "I've been studying and training with the Solnorian rangers until a few weeks ago; a summons has come from my uncle in Caea Lin, and the caravan was the only means of my getting there."  
The elder nodded in relief, and a sly look entered his eyes as he lifted his chin slightly. "Good, then you can take the girl with you when you leave." he stated rather then suggested.  
Keo, who was gazing over the gray, scarred plains, looking bleak and ominious under the moonlight, and thinking how grim and dead-like the Wastes looked, swung around in complete surprise to face the impassive elder with an audible gasp. "What? Why? What am I going to do with her?" he stammered in consternation, taken aback. "Why can't she stay here, at least till she recovers her memory?"  
"No!" Sha'luk replied sharply, shaking his head so violently that the wild strands of his beard flew into his face. "We cannot keep her with us, Outlander! She has no place among the Dunez – she must return to her own people, as must you. We dare not go near the cities of the DaleLords, so her only way to get there is by travelling with you." He folded his hands inside his wide sleeves before adding with indifference, "You can do as you like with her, Outlander. Its none of our concern once she leaves."  
'You sound awfully eager to wash your hands of her fate.' Keo thought to himself, indignation seeping through his eyes. 'Why didn't you just leave her to the beasts?' But he said nothing out loud, only glanced back at the tent they had just left a few minutes ago. What good would her going with him do? He was used to traveling light and alone; his progress would be hampered in more ways then one if he agreed to take her. But what would the Dunez do if he refused? Just abandon her? He frowned, and suddenly felt like kicking himself. 'How would you feel if you woke up with no memory of your former life? Not even your own name? How would you feel, Keo?' he heard his conscience screaming at him. He set his lips in a firm line, and gave the waiting elder a brief nod. "Very well." he answered slowly, deliberately. "I'll take her with me to Caea Lin."


	6. Chapter 6

"I think we've lost them...for now."  
Ryos gulped down air as he spoke, breathless and panting after their escape from imminent death in the market square, and avoiding the soldiers sent to pursue and recapture them. His breath came out in frosty myst, and he shivered as he and his two companions crouched in the only refuge they thought safe from searching patrols; Hudarrak's massive, twisting maze of sewers that ran deep beneath the sprawling capital of Dwalica. Despite being underground with no clear access to the outside, a dim green light seemed to emulate from the damp, lichen-covered walls, throwing eerie shadows down the dark, narrow tunnels. Foul, murky water splashed at their feet, and the place reeked of decay and death. But to the apprehensive fugitives, it was far more pleasant than staring at blood-stained planks and waiting for the sickening crunch of an axe as it crushed through their necks.  
"What...what do we do now?" Alviria asked through trembling lips, hugging her thin arms around her chest helplessly. Several times during their flight, she had stumbled, only to be dragged back to her feet by Nioth Arz, and the ordeal had left her ragged condition in an even worse state then it had been before. Like the others, she was filthy and stank, and her embarrassment only added to her tense, frightened outlook.  
The SoulTorn shrugged, his wings pressed almost to his body as he shifted in the close confines of the dark passage. "Wait till dusksun." he replied evenly, hollow eyes looking more lifeless in the dim light. "We need to leave the city as soon as possible...hide in the countryside, leave the kingdom entirely." he added grimly.  
"Leave the kingdom?" Ryos glanced towards Nioth Arz, and his voice rang with doubt. "And go where? Not to mention how? We can't just nonchalantly board any ship in the harbour."  
"No." Nioth agreed, "Soldiers will be searching every ship, but there are other alternatives. And as to where," he frowned in thought, "either the Dale or the Tolnorid CityStates; they would be the only safe havens left to us in the Beyond Realms, and I have no wish to go to the Alliance Realms."  
After a moment's consideration, Ryos nodded. "That's true. But how do you suggest we get there?" he inquired curiously.  
"Smuggling. There are always ship captains willing to smuggle fugitives out of the kingdom for the right price."  
Alviria's eyes went wide, "But we're not criminals!" she protested.  
"In the eyes of the king, and likely everyone else in Hudarrak now, we are." Ryos reminded her quietly. "Would leaving Dwalica really be so bad? Its not like we have anything here to hold us back. In another kingdom, no one will know us, and we'll be free to start our lives over again. Only...we don't have much by means of money, do we?"  
Nioth Arz fished around inside his ragged, stained tunic, pulling out a small, battered pouch, and shook out the contents. He held up three copper denars in his talons, and sucked in his breath. "This is all I have."  
Reaching into the hidden valise on the inside of his belt, Ryos withdrew five copper coins. "I don't think any captain would be desperate enough to risk his life for such a meager sum." he observed with a trace of amusement in his tone. "Is this all we have?"  
They turned towards Alviria, but she looked down at her hands and shook her head. "I...I don't have any money." She whispered, a catch in her pained voice. "The soldiers...took away everything."  
"Well, I'm sure we can somehow scrape together a few more denar." Ryos suggested hopefully, trying to brace up the girl's despondent spirits.  
Nioth Arz strained his neck to peer around the corner towards the narrow opening. "Almost dusksun." He reported back to the others. "I will go out and see if I can find a few things we could use."  
"Be careful." Ryos cautioned him, wanting to protest against such a risky venture, but realizing they had little choice. "The longer we stay here, the more chance the soldiers will find us. We don't need to get recaptured."  
The SoulTorn hesitated, "Shall we all go? It might be faster that way." he added dubiously.  
Alviria reared up in silent protest, but bit down on her words and waited to see what Ryos would say. He seemed to weigh the SoulTorn's suggestion carefully in his mind, deliberating a good while before finally answering. "It would save precious time." he admitted slowly. "But where will we look? Very likely our late accommodations – whatever they might have been – are being closely watched." He added the last bit regretfully, reluctant to leave his beloved vials and their fascinating, even dangerous, contents behind.  
Nioth Arz shifted again, a flicker of impatience stirring his cramped wings. "Like it or not, the only we can likely manage to get what we desperately need, is by just taking it. Stealing if you want to be blunt."  
"Hmm, surely there must be another way?" Ryos frowned, not entirely comfortable with such a prospect. "I know we've branded as criminals, but I have no intentions of actually becoming one."  
"Nor do I. But you realize these people are very much our enemies, and would squeal on us given the chance." he reminded him narrowly. "Most likely we have prices on our heads already. The soldiers, no matter which way you look at it, are our enemies, and I know a way into the palace barracks without being seen. Call it raiding if it makes you feel better."  
After a slight pause, Ryos nodded. "Alright, I'll come with you."  
They turned to Alviria, who sat wringing her hands in obvious agitation, terror and alarm swirling in her wide eyes. "Go to the barracks?" she whispered in weak protest. "But...but that's dangerous!"  
"You can always stay here." the SoulTorn pointed out with indifference.  
She shivered, glanced around uneasily, and then scrambled hastily to her feet. "I don't want to stay here alone!" she gasped, muffling a sob. Nioth Arz gave her a doubtful look, shrugged, and led the way back along the dim, damp tunnel to the entrance. Sympathetic to Alviria's obvious fear, Ryos motioned for her to follow the SoulTorn before falling in behind her. After a cautious look around the dark, deserted street, Nioth Arz pushed himself up, and turned to give the others a hand. "Follow me." he hissed, motioning quickly towards the high towers of the palace that reared over the city like silver-tipped, steel needles.

Queen Ioveta leaned closer to her embroidery and the flickering lamp nearby, her nimble fingers expertly guiding the crimson-threaded needle through the soft, gleaming white satin. The gentle glow of the light fell across her face, highlighting her large, dark eyes perfectly spaced, her high cheekbones and slightly too-large nose, and her delicately shaped lips set in a firm line of concentration. Silken veils, hemmed with gold thread and glittering jewels, concealed her almond-brown hair, and her smooth, tanned cheeks gave testimony to long hours in the sun, giving her a look of youthful vigour that belied her actual thirty years. Her deep green eyes, though fixed on her work, held a distracted look, and from time to time she would glance towards the window, marking the progress of the twin moons as the night lengthened.  
Finally, with heavy, hopeless sigh, she stuck her needle into the fabric and set it aside, a worried frown marring the beauty of her features. "Where could he be at this hour?" she mused, her eyes turning towards the door, expectant and anxious for her lord husband's return. One hand fell absently to her belly; her waist had thickened since the birth of her last child three years ago, and now her womb bloomed with awakened life once more. She had been thrilled and excited when the midwife had confirmed her suspicions that very morning, and had waited eagerly for the evening when she could be alone with Agrakain to share the wonderful news with him. But it was now past dusksun, and he had been absent from the evening meal as well.  
She stood up, undecided. But at that moment, hurried steps from outside arrested any purpose she might have had, and a look of relief flooded her face as the latch clicked. Yet, it was not Agrakain who stood in the doorway, swaying unsteadily in the flickering lamplight, and the Queen stared blankly at the unfamiliar household knight. He took a halting step forward, "My lady," his voice rasped hoarsely from the visor of his helm. "You've been betrayed!" He meant to say more, the urgency in his tones sending chills through the Queen's heart, but he collapsed onto the floor, gasping and choking.  
"The..captain..." he managed to force the words out, laced with pain slurred by fast-failing senses. "He's...purging the palace...of the king's blood...my lady, you must...must flee!" A dying groan tore up his throat, his body convulsed in agony then lay still. Dark pools of blood seeped through the carpets, like a river of impending doom.  
Ioveta clutched at her throat, feeling a scream of panic and terror rising like a flood. With effort she swallowed it down, and her hands closed around her belly instead. She had to think rationally. Panicking would only ensure her death, and the death of her child. The knight's dying words echoed in her mind; her husband must be dead already, and now this usurping traitor sought to choke out any who dared stand in his way to the throne. But what could she do? How was she to escape, not knowing who still remained loyal to her king? Again she felt the helpless panic surging up, and only stealthy steps from outside brought her back to her reeling senses. Glancing around hastily, she sprang towards the corner by the window, concealing herself behind the long drapes and waiting with bated breath.  
"Damn your slowness!" a sinister voice growled from the direction of the door. "Someone's gotten here before us and scared her off!"  
"The whole palace is crawling with Jekor's mercenaries." a second voice replied tremulously, as if fearing punishment for this failure. "She'll run into them eventually and it'll be over in seconds."  
There was a dull thud, as if of a blow falling on someone's head. "You fool!" the first voice hissed angrily. "Jekor doesn't want the Queen dead! She's to be his share of all the spoils, or part of his share anyhow."  
"Oh..." came the rather deflated reply of his companion.  
"Get back out there, and find her!" the other snapped impatiently, and Ioveta let out a shuddering gasp as she heard their footsteps scrambling in the passage, fading away. Her knees gave out, and she slumped to the floor, burying her face in her hands to muffle her sobs. For several minutes, she gave vent to her grief, fear and bewilderment, oblivious to whether she was heard or not, and it was some time before she could brace herself against the cold, hard truth. She wiped her sleeves over her eyes, while her entire being screamed out for revenge against the man who had murdered her husband, and was even now killing his numerous heirs, including her own children. And now it seemed he sought to keep her alive, as some sort of trophy! She stiffened at such an outrageous thought, and Agrakain's dead body would have writhed in his grave in agony and shame of his wife's unwavering loyalty to him.  
Peering out cautiously between the drapes, Ioveta's tear-brimmed eyes glanced around the room. Convinced it was empty of intruders, she crawled out and hurried to her armoire, snatching up any valuables within ready reach and hiding them in her clothes. She would have to leave Hudarrak, of that she was certain, and the only way possible was would be to bribe a ship to take her across the Crimson Sea, either to the Tolnorid CityStates to the north, or the Dale to the east. The Dale, she nodded to herself, swinging a heavy cloak over her shoulders, Outlanders were as a rule more hospitable and welcoming to strangers then the Tolnor, and would be more trustworthy. Drawing the hood down over her face, she stepped hesitantly into the empty passage.  
A lone brazier burned by the wall near the door, throwing dim light down the hall in a feeble, yet valiant effort to drive back the shadows. The Queen, knowing the many twists and turns in the palace, hurried from the royal suite of chambers, heading for the servants quarters, where a small, unobtrusive postern opened directly to the city. But she had no idea of the chaos that ruled on the ground floor, as Jekor's men reveled after a night of murder and bloodshed.  
Approaching shadows of a patrol made her duck into a anti-chamber, and she pressed herself against the wall as they passed. Light from torches in their hands glanced off the walls, and she felt sure they would hear the audible pounding of her heart against her breast. But they kept right on walking down the passage, their heavy boots crushing the soft carpets in their wake. Queen Ioveta sighed, wondering if her nerves could take much more of this. Before she could make a move; however, voices from the nearby chamber made her almost shriek in terror, and she had to bite her lip in silent agitation as she listened.  
"Is it done?" the unmistakable voice of Jekor asked from behind the brass-bound doors that led into the audience chamber. He sounded smugly satisfied with himself over something, and Ioveta, if she hadn't given herself a good mental shake, could barely keep herself from rushing into the room and strangling him with her own delicate hands.  
"Yes, my Liege." another voice, hard and stern but lacking the depth of unchain ambition Jekor clearly had, replied. It took the Queen some time to recognize the speaker as Toof Redcrow, one of Jekor's underlings whom she had seen on a few occasions. "All of Agrakain's bloodline has been erased; your assension to the throne can proceed without interruption. But," he added suddenly, "it seems the Queen has escaped us."  
"That's of little consequence to my plans." Jekor replied, lightly brushing it aside. "My men will catch up to her in the end. What about those escaped fugitives from the execution, Agrakain's worthless bastards? Have they been recaptured yet?"  
Queen Ioveta caught her breath, and at first indignation sprang up in her eyes like cold flames. How dare they accuse her beloved of such atrocious acts! She clenched her hands at her side, her cheeks flushed with humiliation and anger. Then Toof's answer pierced through the clouds of confusion and disbelief that threatened to overwhelm her. "Yes sire. We have seized all but three of them, but my men are still searching."  
"Very good, we must rid Dwalica of these dark stains once and for all." Jekor agreed, his words slightly slurred as he took a sip of something, probably wine. "Kill the prisoners, and be sure to find the missing ones at all cost. I want all ships leaving the harbour to be thoroughly searched."  
"What about the witness?" Toof inquired.  
"Witness?" Jekor repeated uncertainly, but then his voice cleared. "Ah, that rather unfortunate witness to Agrakain's death? I've seen to it that the blame has fallen squarely on their shoulders; a group of mercenaries is already searching for them and assure me the witness won't live long after i am done with them." He chuckled to himself. "Pass that flagon over here, my friend, let's drink to the successful overthrow of that tyrannical lout!"  
Queen Ioveta couldn't bear to hear more. She rushed out into the passage, fisting away tears of anger and bewilderment, and hurried down the wide marble steps, heedless of the dark stains of blood that had spread over them. Slipping down a side passage, she approached the servants hall on cautious feet; the sounds of coarse laughter and muffled screams sending dread like maliscious daggers through her heart. Holding her breath, she glanced around the corner, and what she saw made her gasp in audible, undisguised horror and revulsion.  
Guards wearing a livery she had never seen before had taken over the servants quarters, and were reveling now that their night's work was over. They seemed to have dragged up casks of wine from the cellars, and having broached them, were now drinking themselves senseless, and many were already sprawled across the floor. The guards who hadn't reached that stage yet, had rounded up all the palace maids, and Ioveta watched in paralyzed terror as they forced themselves on the struggling girls, whose pleas and screams for mercy and respite had grown weaker and more incoherant as the continued ordeal robbed them of all physical and mental strength. The floor was littered with the bodies of drunken soldiers and dead servants, and spilt wine mingled with the pools of blood. The guards were so engrossed in their brutalities, that they didn't hear the Queen's cry, and no doubt the unending shrieks and groans of their victims helped drown out the sound.  
Ioveta backed out, shaking with renewed sobs. All her queenliness, her chastity, her loyalty, her grace, her very essence of womanhood, seemed to have been cruelly ripped away by unseen hands in that one glance upon that ruthless scene, leaving her as vulnerable as those poor girls. Nothing she had ever seen or heard, could have prepared her for what she had just seen. Revulsion seeped its bitter touch through her stomach, and she retched helplessly on the floor, feeling as miserable and filthy as the servants in the nearby room. The screams continued to echo through her ears, and she didn't care anymore whether she was discovered or not, whether her fate would be slow and lingering at the hands of Jekor, or swift and painful. Despair and grief encircled her with their heavy shackles, and she cowered inside their comfortless embrace like a lost, hopeless child.  
"Hey!" a soldier's rough voice shouted from the room, and startled that she might have been found, the Queen glanced up in fresh alarm as she backed away into the shadows. "Get back here, its my turn!" the man added, his voice slurred by the sounds of drinking.  
Before Ioveta could react, a girl crawled into the passage, dim light falling across her naked body. Her legs were twisted, broken by the savage actions of those soldiers who had already raped her, and her wild, haggard eyes were depthless pits of mad torment and desperation. Her dark hair hung in sweat-soaked tangles down her shoulders and breasts, and she glanced around wildly for some means of escape from her awful fate. Her eyes fell on the Queen, and she stretched out her hand pleadingly. "Kill me!" she begged hysterically, her voice empty of all will; a mere whisper of life devoid of everything and yearning for death to sever the last threads of wretched existency.  
The Queen almost choked on her own horror, and she could only stare at the girl in mingled disgust and pity. "Please!" the servant begged urgently, "Kill me! I can't..I can't take anymore!"  
Just then a man, in nothing but his disheveled, wine-stained inner tunic, stumbled from the room, a flagon swinging from one hand. He grabbed the girl by her hair, dragging her back into teh room while declaring with a coarse laugh, "I haven't finished with you yet!" The girl had no strength to resist, only her face twisted in a grimance of agony, and her piercing scream rang and echoed in the Queen's ears until she was sure she would never forget it. She covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her own anguished scream, while the tears ran down her pale cheeks in uncontrollable rivers.  
She felt a hand on her shoulder, and turning in fright, stared straight into hollow, dark eyes void of empathy but burning with inner torment, Her glance fell to the long, black talons resting on her shoulder, and that's when her senses were plunged into a sea of inky, black shadows, and she was lost to the horrors she had just witnessed.


	7. Chapter 7

Nioth Arz gave Ryos a blank look as the Queen fainted, and seemed at a loss as to what he should do. After their successful raid on the barracks, it had been their idea to sneak into the palace in hopes of discovering what was going on. The dead bodies of household knights and servants, and the screams and laughter that echoed through the palace, had been enough to convince them that the royal house was in chaos. Catching snatches of conversation from the guards had also shed light on the suspected reason behind their execution, but the usurpation of Jekor had come as a complete shock. They had been on their way out, ignorantly following the same route as the Queen, when they had stumbled upon her in the passage only seconds after the soldier had dragged the servant girl back inside.  
"We can't leave her, not with the whole garrison looking for her." Ryos answered, sensing the unspoken question hanging in the air. He tugged at the leather tunic he'd gotten from the barracks, the unfamiliar material chafing at his undertunic and making his skin itch. "We should at least take her somewhere safe until she recovers."  
"What is all that noise?" Alviria asked, trying to stop her voice from trembling but only making it shake even more.  
Nioth Arz looked up instantly, "Stay away from there!" he ordered sharply, his tone taking them both by surprise. He lowered hardened eyes at Alviria, "Do not look! You of all people know what these soldiers are capable of – so stay away!"  
The girl paled at the reminder, and she backed away with downcast eyes. Ryos gave her a sympathetic look, and wished there was some way he could muffle out those horrible groans and screams. Meanwhile, Nioth Arz had lifted the Queen's limp form in his arms, "Well?" He motioned the other two to go on ahead with a tilt of his chin. "You do know this is Queen Ioveta, do you not?" he directed his question to Ryos. "What good will she do us?"  
"Maybe she can help us leave the country." Ryos replied, carefully guiding Alviria past the servants hall. He felt her tremble against him, and gave her arm a reassuring touch before continuing. "If nothing else, we keep her out of Jekor's hands."  
Nioth Arz gave him a narrow look, "You should not be so trusting of others." he muttered warningly. "They will just stab you in the back."  
"Not everyone is treacherous like Jekor, or Agrakain." Ryos reminded him calmly. "And just because I help someone, doesn't mean I trust them."  
The SoulTorn frowned, "Why then?"  
"Because," Ryos answered, pausing to nudge open the narrow postern and holding it ajar as the other two sidled past, "its the right thing to do." He pushed it shut with his shoulder, while Nioth gave him a withering glare, and then pointed away towards the harbour where starlight lay mirrored in the night-shrouded waters of the Crimson Sea. "We should be able to find shelter in one of the abandoned huts by the shore until the Queen is recovered and we can decide what to do next."  
Nioth Arz gave a short nod of assent, and Alviria fell in step behind them as they skirted the main streets, taking alleys and side streets to avoid the growing number of patrols. Nothing more was said until they reached the harbour, where dark waters lapped quietly against the empty docks and licked the silver shores to the east, where the black remains of an old, abandoned fishing village still stood in silent testimony to the ancient foundations of Dwalica's oldest city. They found one sagging hut where fallen beams from the rotten, weather-beaten roof formed a precarious shelter, and settled in for the remainder of the night. It was cold and the wind brisk, but they had cloaks with them, and huddled in the corner where the wind was least likely to reach them in all its force. Alviria passed out the provisions she'd snatched up while they had made their stealthy way through the palace kitchens, and they sat nibbling them in the dark, not daring to light a fire.  
"Have you ever been to the Dale?" Alviria broke the silence as they brushed away crumbs, her amber eyes staring absently through a gaping breach in the wall at the sea. She asked no one in particular, and the random way she dropped it made Ryos suspect she was trying to take her mind of what she'd seen and heard in the palace.  
"No." Nioth Arz shook his head, "I was in the Tolnorid CityStates for a while before coming to Dwalica."  
"Were you...born there?" Alviria asked hesitantly.  
The SoulTorn shrugged, "Maybe."  
"I've been to the Dale a few times, when i could find a ship to stow away on." Ryos commented, sensing the SoulTorn was not keen to divulge his past. "Shattersea has a vast library!" He would have gone on, but Alviria interrupted him with an incredulous 'You can read?!'  
"Yes, of course." he nodded, registering by her wistful glance that she could not. "I can write as well. Its not hard to learn; I could teach you once we settle down into a normal life."  
"*If* we ever get to the Dale." Nioth Arz reminded them icily.  
A stir from the Queen brought their attention to her, and as she blinked in an effort to rouse herself, Ryos crossed over to crouch at her side. "Its ok, your grace." his voice was gentle, soothing, as she started in alarm on seeing a stranger bending over her. "You're safe here; Jekor and his men won't find you."  
"Who are you?" Ioveta finally found her voice, and eyed him with a mixture of curiosity and caution. What had happened? Last she remembered was seeing that poor girl dragged back to that room of terror. How did she get here, in the cold and dark? That tangy, sharp air...could she be at the sea already? "Where am I?"  
"Don't exert yourself, your grace." Ryos warned, laying a detaining hand on her arm as she glanced around. "We brought you to the harbour in Hudarrak."  
The Queen struggled into a sitting position, and peered around in the gloom. Catching sight of Ryos' two companions watching her warily from the shadows, she frowned. Three of them? Hiding out in abandoned ruins? Her mind went back to the conversation she'd overheard between Jekor and Toof; about the three missing fugitives...Agrakain's bastards. "Its true then?" she whispered, sobs rising in her throat as the horrible truth yawned before her like a fathomless rift in the ground, threatening to drag her down in its dark embrace. How...how could this be true? Her Agrakain, guilty of such unfaithfulness? While she in blind devotion and innocence had lavished her unquestioned love and loyalty on him. This was...this was too cruel!  
"Is what true? Ryos asked, concern crossing his expression as the Queen trembled in the strength of her emotions. "That Jekor murdered the king?" he inquired, thinking perhaps that was the chief source of her uncontrollable grief.  
"No, I know that already." she sniffed, trying to pull her regality back together after the serious shock she'd suffered in the palace. "I mean about you. Are you...are you..." She shook her head, finding herself unable to voice the dreaded word. "Is it true about my lord husband?" she asked timidly, her fingers toying with the loose ends of her veils.  
Ryos sank back on his heels, unprepared for such a question and how to answer it. Alviria blushed guiltily, as if taking the Queen's question as condemnation directed against her, and she looked down at her hands. Only Nioth Arz, with his indifference, bridged the awkward silence that followed the Queen's unexpected question. "You did not know?" he asked bluntly.  
Queen Ioveta shook her head, and the livid horror and dismay in her eyes banished all doubts from their minds. "I had always..." she choked on the sobs that caught in her throat, and for several minutes she was unable to speak. The three fugitives, only slightly comprehending the anguish and sense of guilt and failure that the Queen felt crushing her heart, waited in silence. With a wrenching sigh, Ioveta shook her head and wiped away her bitter tears. "No, I didn't know my lord husband was unfaithful – and how could I know? He was always so noble and gallant with me, never gave the slightest hint that his passions were sated by other women." She laid a hand carefully over her womb, "And now even his unborn child must suffer because of his sins."  
"Your grace..." Ryos hardly dared to grasp the significance of what she had said. "You are with child?"  
"I am." she nodded sadly. "And if Jekor knew..."  
"...he would sooner kill you then take you as his prize." Nioth Arz interjected. He turned to Ryos, nodding. "You were right, Vosul. We seem to have no choice except to help her escape with us."  
Ryos agreed with a slight smile, adding, "We have yet to scrape together a decent sum of money though."  
"Please, allow me to settle that matter." Queen Ioveta declared, remembering the valuables she had hastily gathered for this very purpose. "You've saved my life, and the life of my unborn child, and this is one way i can repay your selfless act of kindness to a stranger."  
Nioth Arz frowned at her suggestion, not with disapproval, but rather in deep contemplation. "In that case," he said slowly, "I think I know a man who would be willing to take us to the Dale." He settled back against the wall, shifting gingerly as he folded his wings around himself. "But it must wait till morning."

"Well?" Jekor demanded, impatience and agravation rising like volumous stormclouds in his tone. He flung one trailing length of his cloak over his shoulder, and waited for an answer with an irritated tap of his foot.  
"Still nothing, my Liege." Toof shook his head, clearly as distressed as his lord over the fruitlessness of their search for the Queen so far. He poured rich, dark wine from a gold-rimmed flagon into two crystal goblets, and offered one to his former captain with a slight bow. "My men are still searching, of course, but it seems she's given us the slip. Perhaps it would be better to call off the search until morning."  
Jekor accepted the proferred drink, and after a few sips, seemed to agree with the suggestion. He nodded, "Very well, call off your men. I'm sure in the morning, she'll be abroad trying to escape the city, and we'll snare her then." He threw himself across the iron throne in the audience chamber, lit by only a few braziers, and glanced around with an appreciative look in his eyes. "I think," he mused with slow relish, "I think its time for the coronation of Dwalica's new king."  
"Of course, Sire." Redcrow was only too eager to agree. He would gladly follow Jekor's rule; his former captian wielded an ambition and will that his predecessor had lacked, and the position offered him at the side of the new king only added glamour and prestige to the prospect. He dropped to his knees before the throne, "Allow me, my king, to be the first to swear homage and fealty to you!" And before Jekor could reply, Toof went, reciting the oath of loyalty in a voice that rang, not so much with conviction, as it did with shared ambition and a hunger for greater power.  
"I accept your oath, Toof Redcrow, and will hold you to it, till such time as you should seal it in blood, or that I should be laid to rest." Jekor replied, rising from his seat to place his hand over the kneeling figure's head in a sign of blessing. "Rise, my General. And send for those louts on the High Court, that they might in their turn swear fealty to their rightful king."  
It was a good hour later, when Toof returned with the lords of Dwalica, most looking annoyed and drowsy at being roused at such a late hour. They blinked in surprise at the unfamiliar man who sprawled on the great throne, used for centuries by the Ata'Dor kings, and they began to whisper among themselves, perplexed at the strangeness of this gathering. But a few exchanged knowing, or at the very least, expectant glances with each other, as if they had some inkling or knowledge of what had taken place. After watching them for a minute through narrowed eyes, Jekor thundered across the hall, "Is this how you come before your king? Down on your knees! Everyone of you!"  
"What is the meaning of this?" the oldest among the lords demanded, stepping forward with a frown of displeasure and insulted dignity. "You cannot order us about! Where is King Agrakain?"  
"Yes! Where is the king?" burst from several throats at once. "We were told the king sent for us – where is he then?"  
"You fools!" Jekor retorted angrily, yet with secret delight at their inability to guess the obvious. "I am the king! Agrakain is dead; murdered in the very streets of his city by assassins, while you laze about the palace at his expense and neglect your duties."  
Stunned silence followed in the wake of his words. The nobles retreated into shock and disbelief, and for several minutes, they stood like men petrified. Then one of them pointed out in rather pompous tones, "If that is true, than the crown falls to his eldest son, the Prince Ajket. You are certainly not him, nor do you have any right to the throne of Dwalica."  
"Imposter!" someone else shouted.  
"Usurper!" came from the lips of several others.  
Jekor descended the dais and advanced towards the group of nobles, his expression passive, almost nonchalant. For a long minute, he stood gazing at them, silencing their clamour with the steady, searching gaze of his eyes, as if appraising their worth. He paused at the eldest among them, the lord who had spoken first in defiance against him. "I believe you have heirs, my lord. Is that not so?" he asked calmly, innocently enough.  
"Yes." the man opposite him replied, a slight pucker forming across his weathered brow. "My son is heir to my estates and position."  
"Oh really?" Jekor raised one eyebrow in pretended interest. "Good then...very good." Then, before anyone could move to avoid it or even cry a warning, he swept out his sword; in the same singular motion cleaning the noble's head from his shoulders. "Then he can take your place!" He informed the corpse calmly as it tottered, blood shooting up in fountains from the severed stump of his neck, and then collapsed to the marble floor, dark rivers of blood pooling across the tiles. The head, sent flying by the force of the blow, struck another noble before falling to the ground, and he shrieked in sheer terror and revulsion as the gruesome sight.  
Gasps of protest erupted from the High Court, but they died down to inaudible mutterings as Jekor turned to them. "Anyone else feel the urge to meet their ancestors before their time?" he demanded sternly. "No? Then hear this; I am of Agrakain's blood, I am one of his many sons, and my claim to the throne is as strong as theirs'! Either swear fealty to me as your king, or go find one of his other heirs if you can and take their side."  
After a moment of silence, the three or four nobles who had not acted in the least bit surprised or troubled by all this, stepped forward and sank to their knees before Jekor. "Long live King Jekor!" they hailed him, as one by one they recited the oath and received his blessing in return. Slowly the others followed their example, either out of fear for their lives, or because they saw opportunities to increase their own status. But there was one noble, who after all the others had gone forward, remained aloof and refused to kneel.  
He was young, his expression pinched with distress mingled with determination and noble loyalty, his voice shook with emotion, but his eyes remained clear and steady as he pointed accusingly at his fellow nobles. "Traitors...all of you, traitors! You would swear allegiance to this man, who we have no knowledge of, and who just killed the lord of Ashrifor in cold blood? You think that by siding with him, you'll avoid such a fate?" He shook his head violently, adamantly. "No. No, you fools! I know what kind of a man Agrakain really was! And I can see that you' – he glanced at Jekor – 'will be a thousand times the tyrant he was. What he did in secret, you will openly flaunt. I will have no part in this madness, this blatant treachery against the Ata'Dor."  
He wanted to say more. He would have said more! But Jekor would have none of it. He saw the noble standing there; alone in his defiance, defenceless against any attack, and yet so brazenly courageous, and he scowled with a deep and bitter hatred. Such fearlessness in those who opposed him was dangerous, and something that would jeopardize his reign if left to fester. With his sword still dripping with the blood of the noble he had slain only minutes earlier, he lunged at the young lord and cut him down with one savage stroke.  
Stepping back, he let out a sigh heavy with relief and satisfaction. "I will tolerate no such defiance in my presence, my palace, or my kingdom." He addressed the stunned nobles behind him. "And I trust you will root out any sedition of the like that you may encounter with the same measure of zeal." He added grimly, wiping his blade clean against the dead man's robes. "Now leave me."  
Once he was alone in the audience chamber, he gave Toof a cynical smile. "I have no real use for them, but for the time being, their presence will help appease the people." He sheathed his weapon, contemplating his General with an absent gaze. "One thing though, has escaped my attention for far too long."  
"The Queen?" Toof inquired, slight puzzlement rippling through his tone. He thought they'd just agreed to call off the search until morning.  
"No." Jekor shook his head impatiently, wishing Toof would just forget about her for one damn minute. "Where is Agrakain's hound?"  
Redcrow blinked, gasping in sudden realization. "He sent it after that caravan almost two weeks ago; the one leaving Doth Solnoras across the Black Wastes for the Dale. He was convinced one of the women travelling with it was the mother of one of his excess heirs."  
"Has it returned since?" Jekor asked quickly, alarm and frustration making his voice tight like a well-strained rope.  
"No..."  
Slamming his fist on the table, the king howled in rage and vexation. "We must find it, Toof! At all costs it must be silenced!" He seethed inwardly, his breath heaving up from his chest in short, angry bursts. "When it comes slinking back after its task is done, we must end its miserable life – I won't have a feral beast loose in my grounds!" He knew well the hound would not return, not until every living soul in the caravan had been torn apart, and if some fled, it might take days to stalk them down. "In the meantime," he resumed his place on the throne with a self-consoling smirk, "send word to Amrostas in the Tolnorid CityStates. Inform the Lady Ysil that she will be welcomed back to the royal court in Hudarrak, as the Queen Mother."


	8. Chapter 8

"Anozher zity?"  
Arvox'Tion let incredulity soak into his words, feeling there would be no end to them. He slumped in the saddle, letting the reins hang loosely over his horse's withers as he glared sullenly at the cluster of peaked rooftops that were visible just beyond the rise in the road ahead. His luminous vermeil eyes, looking rather eerie and sinister in the grey light of dusksun, held a look of exaggerated unease that made itself quite plain across his narrow Vakaric features. As if in calculated disagreement of his rider's dislike for cities, his horse snorted and threw back his head, flinging his mane into Arvox'Tion's face as if to point out that he, at least, would appreciate a proper grooming and a nice, warm stall for the night.  
"Fenstead isn't a city." Hath countered, twisting in the saddle to glance down the road behind them before bringing his reminding gaze back to the Vakaric. "Its only a town, and a small one at that. And its where we plan to hire a ship to take us across the Crimson Sea."  
Arvox'Tion gave the reins a sharp jerk to remind his horse its place. "I zhought datz vhy ve vent to Rauroza." he grumbled in weak protest.  
"Yes." Xonar Tvol agreed, keeping his eyes partly on the road and partly on I'soro, who rode in silence to his left. "But didn't you see all those posters in the city? No captain, however desperate he may be, was willing to risk his life in the chances of getting caught smuggling a suspected assassin of the king, and her accomplices, past the harbour authorities. We were directed here because Fenstead is a small town and off the main road."  
"And I doubt the royal officials will believe us if we told them what really happened that night in Hudarrak." Hath added with rare gravity.  
"In the four days it took us to get here, we've enjoyed sleeping beneath the stars." Sorak-Boko pointed out mildly, hoping to appease the Vakaric's glum mood. "Who knows, we may shortly be plunged into some strange adventure without warning, and then I'm sure even you, Arvox'Tion, will be pining for the comfort of inns."  
Arvox'Tion actually grinned as he replied, "Dat I muzt zee."  
"Remember, don't draw unnecessary attention to yourselves." Xonar reminded them in a low, guarded voice as they rode in under the town gates. "We don't need a horde of soldiers after us. I would prefer to leave Dwalica with as little fuss and noise as possible." He drew up to the rickety sign of a inn, and turned his horse's head into the courtyard where a few scrawny-looking chickens pecked at the hard, bare ground in the soft twilight that was fast fading to the deep darkness of night. He dismounted by the water trough, which sported tall, wavy weeds, and his companions one by one swung down from their tired mounts to join him. Leaving their horses to nose through the weeds for a drink, they crossed the inn yard, mounted the few, creaking steps and pushed their way through the stiff-hinged door.  
The common room was hazy with hearth smoke and smelt of stale beer and ale, but it looked suitably clean and well-kept despite bleak outward appearances. A few farmers and other men from the town lounged at the front tables, most dozing off while others conversed in low tones about weather, crops, families, and rumours of a new king on the throne. They barely spared a glance to the newcomers, and Xonar guided his band towards the counter where the innkeeper slumped over a fat, greasy ledger, mumbling figures under his breath and scowling.  
"Good evening." Tvol opened, resting his elbows firmly on the edge of the counter leaning slightly forwards. He pushed his hood back, letting the light of the overhead candlewheel fall over his eerie golden eyes. Most in the Beyond Realms would have mistaken him for a Outlander instead of a Tethdorian at first glance. No one would have guessed a Tethdorian exile would seek refuge in one of the Beyond kingdoms, and even the mere thought of a Tethdorian in dishonour and disgrace was, even in these remote lands, scarcely believable.  
The innkeeper lifted his head and eyed Xonar with hard, beady eyes that seemed honed to sizing up the wealth of his customers by their physical appearance. Unimpressed therefore, with the traveller's weather-stained cloak and hardened features, he scrutinized his companions briefly before giving a stiff reply. "Evening strangers." Then his head dropped back down, and his thick finger slid to the next column of smudged, illegible scrawl.  
"Two rooms for the night, and a meal." Xonar ordered, not in the mood to barter with miserly innkeepers. With a flick of his cloak, he turned on his heel and led his companions to one of the far, corner tables.  
"Friendly fellow." Hath observed under his breath as they seated themselves around the table and drew back their hoods and cloaks. All except I'soro; she kept her hood drawn close over her features, though she did lower her mask, and although her poise outwardly seemed relaxed, the others could see she was ready to spring up at the slightest breath of suspicion.  
"Very." Sorak nodded, feeling rather then seeing the other men in the room automatically turn and stare at him as he drew back his hood.  
In his own time, the innkeeper heaved his burly frame up and brought over a pottery flagon of wine and several cheap-looking clay mugs. Setting them down with a lazy thump, he turned away, muttering something about 'rooting out some supper for them' under his breath. Before he left, Tvol added, "We have horses out in the yard that require stabling." The man grunted in reply, disappearing into the murky depths of the kitchen without a backward glance. But a few minutes later, two lanky boys scrambled from the inner room and made a wild dash for the door, the man's voice bellowing orders after their retreating figures.  
"Vhere vi vind a zhip here?" Arvox'Tion asked quietly, his sullenness drowned out by the uncanny feeling of impending danger lurking nearby. His luminous vermeil eyes, like voids of glimmering blood, darted from side to side as he spoke, as if he expected some sort of ambush to leap from the unfamiliar shadows.  
"There's a small harbour not far from here." Xonar replied cautiously, "We'll go down there tomorrow." He frowned, watching as the men at the front tables slowly roused themselves, and with muttered oaths as they realized how late it was, shuffled towards the door and disappeared into the night. Leaning back in his chair he kept his eyes on the door, unable to shake off the uncanny feeling that they had unwittingly walked into a trap. He felt a hand hesitantly tough his leg, and turned to see I'soro looking straight at him. Quiet assurance of his protection, and hidden confirmation of his suspicions, glimmered from her dark amethyst eyes even as her other hand reached back, fingers closing around the familiar steel of her swordhilt.  
The inn door banged open, hitting the wall with such force that a substantial myst of fine dust was dislodged and swirled to the floor in agitated clouds. Six figures, their armour mismatched, their weapons flaunted in clear view, and their jaws arrogant, stood in the doorway. They sauntered into the room, tracking in mud and dirt from the road, and glanced around with alarming expectance. Their leader, a swarthy brute with a neck like a bull's and brawny arms to match it, spied the small group in the corner and with a slow smirk of murderous intent spread across his broad, ugly features, he directed his heavy steps in their direction.  
"Ah look here boys!" he called the attention of his men towards them. "We seem to have come across some fellow travellers in this backwater slum after all. Now isn't that a stroke of luck!" His men answered his words with coarse laughter, and as they moved forward, they took up positions so as to block any attempts of escape that might be made; a move that was closely marked by Tvol and his followers. "And what brings you to this dull, run-down establishment?" the leader asked in feigned friendliness, propping one heavy boot against a nearby chair.  
Xonar nonchalantly poured himself some wine and lifting the cup, smelt it briefly before taking a small sip. "I don't believe I have business with you." he replied dismissively without even looking up.  
"No?" the man scowled horribly. "Ah, that's unfortunate...because I just so happen to have business with you! Men, kill them!" he ordered, wrenching rather then drawing his sword out of his scabbard. "But save the assassin alive." he added with a maliscious glint in his eyes.  
Two of his men made a lunge for I'soro as she sprang up, but their blades met cold steel and they found themselves staring straight into the piercing glare of Xonar Tvol. As his band lept up, flinging aside their cloaks and unsheathing their blades with a harsh ring of steel, the brutish leader uttered a beast-like roar. More men sprang in through the door, at least a score of them, bristling with eagerness and raw savagery. The voice of their leader thundered across the room, "Kill them! Kill the murderers of Agrakain! Drag the assassin back to Hudarrak in chains!"  
Xonar effortlessly swiped aside the weapons of his two opponents, his twin blades moving through the air with terrifying speed and deadly precision. Blood dripped to the floor in the wake of his move, and the mercenaries fell dead without a sound save for the heavy, dull thud as their bodies hit the floor. The fighting was close and fierce, the larger group of warriors clearly well-trained in their line of work despite their disorderly appearance. Tables were tumbled aside, benches and chairs were kicked over or hacked apart by blows falling wide, and the floor was soon sleek with blood and littered with bodies. Engaged with deflecting a myriad of blows as the brigands closed in from all sides, Xonar had little time to keep an eye on any of his companions, and could only trust to the years of skill they had developed over their time together as a group. The conditions were cramped and there was little room to manueveur, and there seemed to be so many enemies.  
Suddenly he noticed a lull in the fighting; the mercenaries had backed off apparently, their numbers reduced and their leader favouring one leg. Only then did Tvol become acutely aware of stifling pain in his left thigh, and the resulting stiffness of his leg. He took the time to quickly survey his group; Hath seemed unharmed and only just warmed up for a real fight, Arvox'Tion looked rather limp with blood trickling from his side and running down his sideguards, Sorak-Boko was bleeding from several minor-looking injuries but still looked hale, while I'soro...?! With a sickening jolt, Xonar realized too late that the Shadow'mancer was no longer among his band, and he glanced sharply towards the sneering mercenary leader. Behind him, three of his men restrained I'soro in a tight grip, while their captain observed the four figures who stared at him with mingled defiance and anger.  
Tvol forced his gaze past the leader's taunting expression, focusing on his captive group member, and read nothing but rising desperation in her dark eyes. Her hood and mask had been wrenched away in her initial struggles, so that now her cold, impassive features, framed with hair as white and gleaming as winter's purest snow, were visible to all. He felt Hath stiffen beside him, and only his better judgement and the firm pressure of his leader's hand on his arm, stopped the Outlander from throwing himself blindly onto the waiting enemy.  
"Well looks like we win the day again." the mercenary captain declared, a sinister smirk spreading across his loathesome features. "Its a pity you won't get to see your friend's torture and inevitable death in Hudarrak, but we were ordered to kill all her accomplices on sight." Somehow his voice was not at all as consoling as he meant it to be.  
But Xonar and his companions paid him no heed, their gazes riveted on their captive friend. Something about the intensity and dread in their eyes warned the man, and he spun around expecting some form of danger to reveal itself. His eyes narrowed at what he saw, and he threw a suspicious glance at Tvol. "What...what manner of power is this?" he muttered in a voice torn between fear and desperate bravado.  
I'soro stood motionless in her captors' grip, a strange light burning in her eyes. Dark shadows swirled at her feet, goaded by an unseen wind, and slowly rising up her braced legs, reaching out thin tendrils towards her hands. A black light shimmered at her fingertips, coursing outwards, taking shape as long, curved blades of living shadow and steel, while a darkness enveloped her, shrouding her resolute figure till only the cold, dark flames of her eyes could be seen. Her captors sprang back, fear and bewilderment staring from their wide eyes. With one flick of her wrists, she sent them sprawling across the floor, shadowy blade marks in their torsos leeching out crimson blood mingled with ashes. As she turned on the others, her eyes pits of amethyst flames and her hair streaming behind her like dusky pennants, they screamed in mortal terror and tried to flee, dropping their weapons and diving through windows in their urge to escape. But shadows pursued after them, ripping through their bodies and leaving nothing but husks that fell to the floor and dissipated like scattered dust. Only the leader stood his ground, fear slowly replacing the arrogance in his eyes as I'soro turned to him. She took a step forward, approaching slowly, her blades dripping with shadows that hit the floor and sank from sight. He tried to speak, to say something, but his lips refused to form the words. She plunged her blades into his chest till they came out through his back, and watched as he inwardly writhed and cringed with agony, the shadows of her unnatural weapons eating through his flesh. With a swift jerk, she pulled her blades clear, and he slumped to the floor with a suppressed groan, coughing up black blood. She sank beside him, leaning close till her lips almost touched his ear. "You will suffer as I have suffered." She whispered, lifting one hand and placing it against his heart. The dark light in her fingers intensified, while the flames in her eyes leaped higher in evident anticipation and pleasure. The man's head reeled back on his neck, eyes rolling in pain, while his jaw gaped open as he tried to scream but found he couldn't.  
"I'soro!" Xonar's stern voice make the Shadow'mancer halt and slightly twist her head to look back at him. He said no more, the look in his eyes enough for I'soro to hold her rage in check. She stood up and backed away, the shadows around her falling to the floor like a discarded cloak and her living blades sliding away like ashes before a brisk wind. The mercenary leader fell backwards, a dying gasp the only sound that passed through the room. It left Tvol and his companions standing alone among the dead. Slowly they realized the danger was over and lowered their weapons, surveying the shambles around them with dazed looks; as if it was only settling in for the first time that they were now hunted by every mercenary and bounty hunter in Dwalica, and soon in all the Beyond Realms.  
"Jekor must have a high price on our heads if mercenaries are already hard on our tracks." Sorak observed with characteristic bluntness. "They must have recognized us in Raurosa."  
"All the more reason for us to leave Dwalica as soon as possible." Xonar Tvol replied with a brief nod as he knelt stiffly to wipe his blades clean, still finding it hard to comprehend that I'soro had actually disobeyed his direct order not to ever reveal she was a Shadow'mancer, and especially not one who understood and could use the secret ways of Shadowsteel. Sharp pain jabbed mercilessly through his injured thigh, and dark blood seeped from the clean, but deep rent through his surcoat and the mail beneath. He looked up as a dark shadow moved over him, meeting the amethyst eyes of I'soro as she knelt infront of him, the fingers of her right hand pressing firmly against his wound.  
She said nothing at first, but at length she looked up at him, her eyes pleading for his understanding of her fears and her voice quiet and calm. "I know you ordered me not to reveal my identity, but I didn't see any other way out."  
He frowned, but shook his head. "Its alright." he assured her, "I am to blame for not paying close enough attention to ensure your safety."  
"None of us saw it happen." Hath broke in, willing to shift blame from his leader to himself and the others. "They flanked us hard and grabbed her before we could realize it." His voice carried faint traces of self-reproach, but now that the immediate danger was over his roused anger was fast cooling. He carefully wiped the blood-sleeked blade of his longsword, which for him usually doubled as a twohander, and sheathed it at his back before bending to help Tvol up. "Should probably have Sorak look at that." he noted, nodding towards the Tor-Xiith who was at that moment inspecting Arvox'Tion over the Vakaric's spirited resistance.  
"Itz only a zratch!" Arvox'Tion's insistent protests echoed through the inn. His luminous vermeil eyes rolled back in his narrow face. "I'm zure I don't need zuch a vuzz about it!"  
Sorak snorted in evident disbelief, "You do, or it will fester, and then you'll have to stay here till the fever passes. Would you like that?" he asked pointedly, reaching into one of the many pouches he carried at his belt; withdrawing some dried leaves, he threw them into one of the empty mugs and then glanced around. "I need some water."  
"Ought to be some in the kitchen." Hath replied, frowning as he remembered they had not seen the innkeeper since before the fight. "I'll go see what I can find." Seeing I'soro start to her feet, he shook his head. "Stay here and look after the others in case some more of these 'fine fellows' show up."  
I'soro hesitated, glancing at Xonar for confirmation of Hath's order. He nodded, and she helped him over to a chair, one hand still firmly clamped over his wound. She sat beside him, her eyes bent on the bodies that littered the floor, as if contemplating their fate. Sorak, after firmly insisting to Arvox that he remain where he was, stepped over to Tvol's side and fixed murky green eyes on his bleeding thigh.  
"Hmmm," he mused under his breath, pulling back the rent leather and mail for a closer look. It had been a precise blow, the stab deep but in no way crippling, and blood still flowed freely. "First we must do something about that bleeding." Sorak-Boko said, more to himself then those around him. He focused briefly on the Shadow'mancer, "See if you can find some cobwebs around, or if not, there are nettles growing by the well in the courtyard."  
"Cobwebz?!" Arvox'Tion spluttered, repugnance ringing through his voice.  
Xonar Tvol grimaced at the Tor-Xiith, "Not nettles again!"  
At that moment, Hath emerged from the kitchen, his arms full of provisions. "I have never seen a more disorganized, filthy kitchen more deserving of being called a slum!" he burst out indignantly, emptying his arms over one table that still stood upright. "Its disgraceful! And it looks like the innkeeper tumbled down his own cellar and bolted it from the inside. But," he indicated the victuals lying in disarray on the table. "I managed to get a few things that still looked edible. And your water, of course!" he added with a nod to Sorak as he handed the Tor-Xiith a steaming carafe.  
"Good." Sorak nodded, proceeding to slowly pour the water into the mug where he'd placed the dried herbs. "Is there strong wine there?" he inquired as I'soro came in from outside, a lantern in one hand and several nettle shoots in her other hand. "Tvol will need some."


	9. Chapter 9

The fire crackled and blazed, casting golden-red shadows far into the night, and lighting up the faces of the Dunez grouped around it. A large spit, heavy with the whole carcass of a young boar, bridged the leaping flames; while two men turned it with practised slowness, a woman kept brushing the meat with its own juices, which constantly dripped down into a dish set by the fire to catch the precious fats. The tribe elder, Sha'luk, sat amidst a cluster of hunters, no doubt taking careful note of their latest scoutings and at the same time planning where the tribe should move next. Women of the tribe moved swiftly from the tribe stores back to the fire, bringing out baskets of succulent, crisp roots and juicy, fat berries, with skins of their own specially prepared wine. A wolf howled in the distance, answered by the hunting yelps of jackals even further off, but the Dunez appeared heedless of such nightly sounds, long accustomed to them in their endless wanderings across the Black Wastes.  
Keo L'nar leaned his hands against his knees and stared out across the dark plains; where he sat on a slight ridge at the very edge of camp beyond the fire's warmth and general light, he had a clear view all around. A thoughtful frown perched on his brow. Tomorrow his stay with the tribe would come to an end. Just that morning, Sha'luk had approached him with the announcement that he was strong enough to continue his journey, so abruptly brought to a halt by the mysterious attack on the caravan. And he had reminded him, quite unnecessarily, of his promise to take the Outlander girl with him, once again adding that he could do what he pleased with her once she was no longer the tribe's concern. Keo singled out the tribe elder with his keen eyes, his frown deepening as he reflected on the indifference the aged man showed. He was still unsure what do to with his new charge once he reached his destination, but at least he would ensure the girl would be safe in his company.  
A shadow crossed over the glare of the fire and Keo looked up from his muse to see Voz'yaro, the Dunez warrior responsible to make sure he didn't stray from camp and had what he needed, standing near him. The young warrior, Keo had noted on numerous occasions, had no discomfort mingling with a Outlander, and seemed both eager and attentive whenever Keo spoke of his stay in Doth Solnoras, or of the cities of the DaleLords. He had also, whenever Keo was permitted short walks from camp, taught him how to fashion a bow after the style used by the Dunez, slightly shorter and stouter then the bows used by the Solnorian rangers. Keo still had his sword, but his bow had been lost with the rest of the caravan in the flames that had consumed it, he was very grateful for the one Voz'yaro had given him. Whenever he asked the Dunez why he didn't distrust strangers like the others of his tribe, Voz'yaro would always shrug and smile wanly, replying that 'the war was a long time ago, and those who caused it had paid for their betrayal many years ago, so there was no need to dwell on things best left forgotten.'  
"You will leave in the morning?" Voz'yaro asked, though whether in relief or disappointment Keo couldn't tell. At his nod, the Dunez seemed satisfied. Then he said something that made Keo start in mingled horror and consternation. "It is good the girl travels with you – left in the tribe, she would have be abandoned along the trail and left to die or simple killed outright."  
Keo glanced downwards sharply, where the girl sat, leaning her back against his legs, and was suddenly very glad she couldn't understand the Dunez tongue. She seemed to understand; however, that the elder had arranged for her to leave with Keo, and since then had rarely left his side ever since she'd felt well enough to walk about, following him like a second shadow. Still unable to recover her memory, she watched the goings-on of the camp with wide, curious eyes. Keo, disliking just calling her as 'the girl', had delved into his mind for a suitable name, and hit upon Hika as being perfect. Fascinated with it, she would often just sit at his side, content to just murmur her name over and over to herself.  
"Tragic and cruel, Outlander, I know." Voz'yaro replied in undertones, sensing the anger and resentment rising in his young companion. "You need not say anything. The Dunez are only too willing to lay the blame of their mistrust on guilt for the past, but in truth the blame is their own. The Outlanders warned them many times, ceaselessly, of the Siik treachery, but they would not listen. My people are stubborn and proud...proud of their dark past." A heavy sigh added emphasis to his words, drawing out the regret that would otherwise have remained hidden.  
The Outlander sat wordless for some time, his eyes staring absently across the plains. "I know only what my uncle and the Solnorians have told me of the Bleeding Skies War," he said slowly, "but it seems to me that the Dunez use it as an excuse to do what they will, and shrug off what they have no inclination to do."  
"Yes, that is sadly true." Voz'yaro nodded thoughtfully.  
Keo turned back towards the tribe grouped around the fire, and noticed that the spit had been lifted off the fire and carried to the side, where several women were serving out portions. Before he could move, Hika uncurled from her place beside him him and hurried down towards the fire. Voz'yaro followed her with his keen eyes, a bemused smile lighting up his naturally stern features. "She seems devoted to you already, Outlander." he remarked.  
"I don't need a servant." Keo protested with a shake of his head. "But I don't want to rob her of the little pleasures she seems to have, despite her circumstances." He smiled his thanks as Hika returned, carefully balancing two wooden platters piles high with the hot meat, still sizzling in its juices, and accompanied with the tart roots the Dunez gather in abundance. She nodded eagerly, her silver eyes glowing with soft lunar flames as she perched on the ridge beside him to eat.  
"I must return to my duties, Outlander." Voz'yaro bowed slightly, stepping away. "In the morning I will show you the direction towards the Dale." He turned and faded into the darkness, leaving Keo and Hika sitting alone at the edge of camp, silently staring towards the fire as they ate.  
After a while, several of the tribe drew out lutes and at a singular nod from Sha'luk, they began playing a sad, low tune. As the twin moons continued their slow ascent through the night sky, the tune changed, still mournful but louder and more earnest. They began to chant while the rest of the tribe went on eating, but with expectant, attentive expressions. At first it was nothing but incoherent sounds as they swayed to the music, but gradually words began to form. Keo leaned forward, one arm across his knees, a curious but pensive look in his dark grey eyes as he mentally translated the lines of the song that drifted across to him.  
'In our hands we held the crimson skies;  
Cold mirrors of our broken lives.  
Grey blades falling from our naked eyes;  
Ashes of our deceit and lies.

With our lips we dug the countless graves,  
That loom as crumbling reminders.  
The ashes of our kin wanderers  
Mingle with embers of silent glades.

Fires burning in the night of our soul  
Passions of a lost dream long cast away  
These ashes are scars that will never fade  
Remembrance of the lies to which we swayed  
Shadows that shroud the dawn of each new day  
Ruins of the sorrow that marked our fall

In our hands we held the bleeding sky  
Our tears that gleamed like crimson rain  
Dark mirrors of our cruel desire  
Immortalized flames of pain

With out lips we unsheathed the daggers  
Unfurled storms of endless sorrows  
Shadows that shaped our paths quite hollow  
To herald death's grim harbingers

Ancient are the griefs born in our blood  
Dust are the bones we long laid to rest  
Buried are the old promises we broke  
But no one forgets the doubts we awoke  
The coals of mistrust and guilt in our breast  
Always we remember we loosed this flood

In our hearts we hold the crimson skies  
Misery of our ancient years  
Mirrored in our falling tears  
And woven in our twisted fears'  
The chanting stopped, fading like winter's ice before the touch of spring, but the music went on, so mournful and eerie. Keo sat like one entranced; his eyes staring into the fire with absent intensity. Slowly the figures around the fire warped back into focus, as if he had just awoken from a dream. He saw the hefty form of the healer lean closer towards Sha'luk, her hard eyes shifting from the elder towards Keo, and her lips moved rapidly as she spoke into his ear. He saw the elder, who had been listening to the music with a placid expression on his face, now frown and with a single motion of his hand the sound of the lutes grew dim and faltered. Sha'luk rose and with the healer beside him, they left the circle of firelight and disappeared inside the elder's tent.  
By the looks of consternation and reluctance shown by the others, Keo guessed the abrupt exit of Sha'luk was neither common nor comprehended. He sighed, squinting at the star-scattered sky and turned his head slightly to see what Hika was doing. Her head rested against his shoulder, her eyes closed in sleep and her sable hair gleaming with dark brilliance as it rippled down her back. Gently he drew his arm around her, something deep inside him stirring as she unconsciously snuggled closer against his chest. He studied her small, delicate hand resting on his knee, and thought back to what Voz'yaro had told him of how Dunez treated strangers in their midst. In more ways then one he was relieved that Sha'luk had decided he would leave tomorrow.  
He glanced up at the sound of footsteps, and saw Voz'yaro's tall figure dimly outlined through the gloom. "The elder does not think Outlanders have a right to hear of our ancient sorrows, since he believes your people caused them." The Dunez began, stepping closer and sinking down on one knee to be at eye-level with Keo. "He thinks the Outlanders should have more then just warn our ancestors, only he forgets they refused to even listen."  
"I never heard Outlanders speak ill of your people." Keo ventured slowly. "They have no problem trading with the few tribes who seek to. Why? They were the ones betrayed by the Dunez and consequently ravaged by the Siik armies, yet...they have no animosity towards them."  
Voz'yaro nodded, his bronze-coloured eyes troubled. "Yes, that is so Outlander. Your people, despite what mine have done, have nothing but kindness and sympathy to offer. Maybe the rumours are true; maybe the Outlanders do carry Tethdorian blood in their veins. I think," he went on after reflecting on what had been said so far, "I think maybe that is why my people hate your kind, Outlander."  
"Because we don't hate them?" Keo sounded taken aback by such a suggestion.  
"Yes...there are many causes for hatred in this world, Outlander." the Dunez replied, his tone almost cynical. "And to often the innocent must suffer because of it." He added, glancing towards Hika with a tender look in his eyes. He shifted his gaze towards the fire, which by this time had sunk down to embers and the tribe had retired for the night. "The elder demands you leave before dawnsun, so you should get some rest." He stood up, adding quietly, "I'll wake you when the time comes." Watching as Keo stood up, carefully holding Hika's sleeping form in his arms, he took a step forward. "I'll take her; its dark and you wouldn't want to stumble."  
Keo felt like he'd only just fallen asleep when persistent shaking brought him blinking and yawning from the peaceful shores of his quiet repose. He squinted in the dim light of the shrouded lantern Voz'yaro held in one hand, and raised himself on one elbow. "Time already?" he asked, half-hoping the Dunez would say no so he could go back to sleep.  
But Voz'yaro nodded, his voice low, almost urgent. "Hurry, we must leave quickly." He urged, glancing over his shoulder towards the tent flap where Hika waited, a dark cloak concealing her soft leather tunic, deerskin leggings and knee-length boots of hard, durable leather. Her hair had been braided and secured around her head to keep it out of the way. Motivated, and slightly alarmed, by the urgency in their guide's tone, Keo tugged on his boots and slipped into his outer tunic. Grabbing his weapons and cloak, he followed the Dunez out the tent, and the three picked their way stealthily through the slumbering camp till they reached the outskirts. Voz'yaro led them down the steep embankment, and they passed from the sight of any sentries who might have seen them. Nothing was said as they walked through the dark, but Keo saw Voz'yaro glance over his shoulder several times and noticed that he kept them at a brisk pace.  
Finally, after almost an hour of walking, with the first dim rays of the sunrise rising from the hills to the east, their guide halted beneath a dense clump of gnarled trees. In the grey light of dawn, Keo could now see the anxious look in his eyes and the tight expression of his face. The Dunez scanned the faded road that ran south, then turned to Keo. "I fear Sha'luk and the healer are not content with you simply leaving the tribe, Outlander." he warned, unable to keep his eyes from constantly glancing back the way they'd come. "I don't know why, but they seem to see you as some kind of threat."  
"Threat?" Keo wasn't sure he'd heard right. He frowned, and his mind went back to last night when the elder had suddenly left in company of the healer. "What will they do?"  
"That I don't know." Voz'yaro knit his brow in agitation. "You are not the first Outlandes my tribe has extended hospitality to, but you are the first given the chance to leave. Sha'luk may send hunters after you; for some reason he deeply fears her." His eyes fell on Hika momentarily. "And no doubt the healer has been putting ideas into his head...like always."  
Keo gave Hika an anxious, protective look. "What should we do?"  
In reply, Voz'yaro gave a low whistle and two horses such as the Dunez rode trotted obediently into view from behind the trees, They were small, slim-limbed and had narrow heads with long, silky manes and tails. A dull grey in colour with darker shading around their muzzles and hooves, they blended in well with the bleak, unwelcoming terrain. "I brought these here last night after I overheard Sha'luk in his tent saying you knew too much to be left alive. Take the road south till you reach the ruins of an old outpost, then go east; you will reach the borders of the Dale that way, but from there on you must find your own way to Caea Lin."  
"But...won't you get in trouble?" Keo interrupted, concern mirrored in his grey eyes. He had no wish to be the cause of Voz'yaro's own demise, and wanted to protest.  
The Dunez shook his head, "I will be fine, Outlander. But you must go now." He reached inside his cloak, "Take this though, you may need to travel at night and you don't need me to tell you how dark it gets at night in the Black Wastes." As he spoke, he withdrew his hand, holding out to Keo a large, oval gem that sparkled transparent in the early morning sunlight. "In the dark, this will be your light. It is a rare moongem; my tribe only has two others like it, and it is said there are very few left in SwordSoul." He pressed it into Keo's hand, closing his fingers around it. "Travel safely, Keo L'nar, and keep the young one safe." He pushed them towards the waiting horses, and while Keo swung expertly into the saddle, Voz'yaro helped Hika mount.  
"Voz'yaro," Keo turned to him, "thank you, for everything. I hope one day we can meet again in more pleasant circumstances."  
The Dunez smiled slightly. "We will see, Outlander. Now go, go, and may the Maker watch over you."


	10. Chapter 10

White-capped waves dashed against the sides of the ship, throwing up foam and saltspray across the deck. Queen Ioveta stood up on the forecastle beside the captain of the vessel, who kept staring at the overcast sky with something between dismay and dread in his weathered glance. "If a storm doesn't throw us off course," he muttered darkly, "raiders from the Siik lands'll haul us over and tax our cargo." He scowled on the grim prospects looming before him. In fact, he was only too happy to help the Queen escape from Hudarrak and the clutches of Jekor and his men; he had long suspected King Agrakain would be usurped sooner or later because of his long, far-from-saintly reign, and he hated to see innocent victims dragged into political schemes.  
Down in the waist of the ship, the Queen's three companions stood at the railing, oblivious to the sea spray that splashed over them. Ryos, having spent his previous sea voyages stowed away in a dark hold, took deep breaths of the clear air, the relaxed expression on his face burying the events of the past few days in a sea of calm security. Beside him, Nioth Arz perched comfortably on the railing, his dark leathery wings extended to catch passing wind. His expression was unreadable, but Ryos could sense that for once the SoulTorn seemed at ease. Even Alviria, now that they'd been able to wash away the worst of the dirt and grime clinging to them, looked almost serene in the bright rays of highsun. The city of Hudarrak, its fears, its horrors, its dread, was all behind them now, not even its cold silver towers could be seen gleaming against the horizon anymore. It was gone, and each hoped it would be forever; they told themselves that once they reached the Dale it would all be over, the Queen would go her own way and they their's.  
The captain eyed them for a minute, then glanced at his royal passenger with a doubtful look in his eyes. "Sure it was wise to bring them along? They look more liable to rob you blind then afford protection."  
Queen Ioveta shook her head even as she let her gaze linger on them. "No, I trust them...more then I trust the retainers in Jekor's pay." Although she couldn't help but smile briefly at the captain's assessment of her companions, she was convinced the three fugitives had no intention of harming or betraying her. She only hoped that the voyage would be free of dangers, for she was still reeling with grief and shock over the events that had forced her to flee Hudarrak.  
All went well until the fourth day at sea when the lookout gave a sharp cry, pointing away north where twin sails billowed out in the stiff, chilly wind. The captain took one look, and cursed under his breath. His weathered featured hardened in determination, but he knew that his cargo-laden ship could not hope to outpace the smaller, fleeter ship fast approaching. He also knew without looking that the raiders would already have their ballistae loaded and ready, and he had no desire to risk his beloved ship to their deadly accuracy. With a resigned sigh, he gave the orders to furl the sails and drop anchor.  
"Please remain in the background, your grace." he muttered, preparing to descend to the lower deck. "And tell your friends not to draw attention to themselves, especially the winged one." He swung down the stairs, joining his first mate and several other men waiting in the waist of the ship, their expressions cautious and guarded.  
Ryos and the other two came to stand beside Queen Ioveta. She drew her hood over her face and readjusted her cloak to hide her richly embroidered gown, leaning her hands on the railing.  
"Why are we stopping?" Alviria asked timidly.  
"Because the raider ship can out-match ours." Nioth Arx replied bluntly, his dark, hollow eyes fixed on the approaching ship. It was close enough now for them to clearly discern the armour-clad raiders standing ready on the deck, grasping brutal-looking axes in their calloused hands. A commanding figure stood squarely in their midst, a horned helm concealing his face, arms folded arrogantly across his broad chest and a crimson cloak streaming down his shoulders. As soon as the two ships were level with each other, a order rang across the waters; the raider ship dropped anchor and a gangplank lowered to bridge the intervening gap. This done, the red-cloaked figure marched boldly towards his prey, eight of his men in his wake. He planted his feet firmly on the deck of the cargo ship and took a quick glance around, Satisfied for the moment that no treachery would be posed against him, he turned to the captain with a sneer. "I am Captain Bogart, and this,' he waved one arm in the general direction of the seas around them, 'is my territory, you understand?"  
"Captain Tye at your service." came the guarded reply.  
Bogart nodded, smiling slowly as he saw the man opposite him was willing to be sensible about all this. "These are my waters, so naturally there are conditions for safe passage. What cargo do you carry?" he pressed his inquiry, raising one bushy eyebrow.  
"Wool and lumber from Dwalica to the markets in the Dale." Tye replied, keeping his expression neutral.  
"Ah..." Bogart inhaled deeply, running a hand along his grisly chin. "I'm not fond of the DaleLords, nor they of me. I'm sure they could do with less wool to cloth their shipwrights and less lumber to build warships. DaleLords!" he spat at Tye's feet in derision and scorn. "Bah! They would seek to become SeaLords as well!" He drew his breath in sharply. "Any passengers?"  
Captain Tye hesitated before giving his answer, and Ryos found himself holding his breath. "A few." the words travelled clearly to the small group on the forecastle.  
"And who might they be?" the raider captain snapped impatiently.  
"Just travellers seeking passage to the Dale." Tye replied with a careless shrug.  
But the suspicious gleam in Bogart's eyes plainly said he wasn't convinced with the captain's evasive reply. "Then why not seek it on a passenger ship, not a merchant vessel? Where are they?" he growled, glancing around. His eyes caught sight of teh figures standing silently above him, looking down on his intrusion with silent, watchful eyes. Signalling for two of his men to follow him, he pushed past Tye and sauntered up the stairs to the forecastle. He glared at the four grouped together, eyes narrowing when he registered two of them were female, and narrowing down even more when he caught sight of the SoulTorn. Rage broke out in his glare like an unsuspected storm, and he swung around to face Captain Tye.  
"You dare bring a filthy spawn of Savrez Mordre into my waters?!" he bellowed in a voice like thunder, stabbing a finger in Nioth Arz's direction. "This...this defiled soul! This wreckage of the Dawnless Wars! I will not have it!"  
Tye sprang forward, "He is my passenger onboard my ship!" he protested firmly.  
"In my waters." Bogart finished for him smugly.  
"These waters are no more your's then they are anyone else's!" Tye retorted, his temper rising. "Take my cargo, if you will. But you will not lay hands on those under my protection!"  
Bogart threw back his head and laughed hoarsely, "Your protection?!" he scoffed while his men joined him in his laughter and mockery. "I think not! Rather, you are all at my mercy. And there is no mercy for wretches like that." he added grimly, lowering his heartless gaze at Nioth once more. "We have only one way to deal with your foul kind." He turned to his men. "Clip him!"  
Ryos caught at his breath, and a unbidden chill of dread shuddered through his body as the raider's order fell on his ears. He glanced at Nioth Arz in helpless alarm and desperation. The SoulTorn met his eyes and gave him a slight nod, "At least you know." he murmured as the men stepped forward, anticipation of some good sport in their hardened eyes. Ioveta looked bewildered, but uncomprehensive as to what was going on, and Alviria only shrunk back from the raiders in instinctive fear.  
The two men shoved their way towards Nioth, but before they could get close enough to grab him, Ryos suddenly sprang infront of them, barring their way. "No." he addressed them firmly. "You won't harm him. Leave this ship – now! - if you value your lives."  
Bogart looked on in amusement and contempt as his men laughed in disbelief. "I suggest you stand aside, boy." the raider captain advised with a sneer. "Unless you want to end up dead like that worthless husk behind you!" He motioned for his men to carry on, while turning on his heel to return to the lower deck.  
As one of the raiders reached out to jerk Ryos aside, the renegade Caster thrust his arms forward, and a stream of searing, blinding flames lept from the palms of his hands. At the sound of agonized screams, Bogart turned at the waist to glance back, and he staggered back in astonishment. "What is this?" he muttered, watching as his men fell to the deck, writhing in anguish and shrieking as they held their hands to their burnt, blinded faces. The raider captain leveled murderous eyes at Ryos while signalling to his men waiting below. "You bastard! You'll pay dearly for that!" he snarled between clenched jaws, reaching back and swinging out his large battleaxe.  
"You shouldn't have..." Nioth Arz muttered under his breath.  
But Ryos silenced him with a look, turned to the Queen, who was staring at him in mingled fear and apprehension. "Your grace, it would be better if you retired to the cabin for now, please, and take Alviria with you." he instructed, barely sparing the girl a glance as he focused his calm gaze on the seething raider captain and his rallied men. Captain Tye and his men could only stand by and watch with despairing hope in their eyes. Without a word, Queen Ioveta nodded and, laying her hand on Alviria's shoulders, gently guided her away.  
"Kill them both, men!" Bogart ordered his followers. "But make it slow; I want them to suffer till the last drop of blood in their veins." The raiders needed no second invitation; they had served Bogart for many, long, harsh years, and his hatreds were immovably ingrained in them. Brandishing their weapons and roaring to awaken their smouldering brutality, they rushed at Ryos and Nioth Arz in a body.  
The renegade Caster raised one hand skyward while with the other he made a wide, sweeping motion towards the oncoming enemy. Immediately in the wake of his action, a sheet of ice spread across the deck, sleek and glimmering despite the overcast sky, and the first line of raiders inevitably slipped on its smooth surface, falling down heavily and causing those behind them to stumble. As Bogart himself sprang forward with an enraged bellow, Ryos levelled his raised arm towards him; a ball of searing flames swirling in his palm and at a single word, it sped towards the swarthy raider, knocking him down among his men and burning across his torso. The ice covering the deck rose in sudden walls of fire, and there was a mad scramble as the hardened raiders struggled to get out of the dancing, enclosing flames. Amid their screams, Ryos heard a shout of alarm from the anchored marauder ship and saw at least a score of armoured men preparing to charge across the gangplank. He thrust one hand towards it, lips moving silently; from the overcast skies a bolt of livid yellow lightning descended, striking the bridge between the two ships and splitting it in half with a shattering crack.  
A sudden rush of wind warned him, but he spun around seconds too late. Sharp pain sliced across his chest and right arm, the force of the blow throwing him off his feet and the pain blinding his mind momentarily. Choking on his own cry of agony, his blurred vision focused shakily on Bogart, who smirked at him as two of his men dragged Nioth Arz forward, kicking and struggling. The SoulTorn managed to tear one of his arm loose, and his talons gouged across one raider's face, ripping out one eye and leaving deep, blood-rimmed furrows in his wake. The man screamed and sprang back, holding his hands to his bleeding face. With a muttered curse, Bogart kicked Nioth Arz savagely in the stomach, so infuriated that for a moment he forgot that his blow would do little, as SoulTorn do not feel physical pain like other mortals do. Once it registered though, as Nioth Arz didn't even wince, the raider captain reached around swiftly and grabbed one of his wings close to his back, giving it a brutal wrench.  
The effect was satisfying to Bogart's cruel heart; Nioth Arz reeled backwards, a shrill, piercing scream, half human and half beast, tore up his throat, echoing with raw agony and inner torment. Although Ryos had heard such cries before, it still seemed to stab into his soul with startling clarity, rallying his weakening strength. With sudden vigour surging through him, he pulled himself back to his feet, dark flames burning in his usually calm eyes. Bogart and his men didn't have time to fully comprehend what was happening as crimson and azure flames sprang from the deck of the forecastle, and all those caught in the inferno crumbled instantly into ashes.  
Bogart alone managed tp spring back in time to save himself, leaving Nioth Arz still writhing and choking in agony and fixing his eyes, so full of hatred and fury they barely seemed human anymore, on Ryos. Raising his axe high above his head, he lunged forward with a deep roar like that of a wounded, enraged beast. The renegade Caster, in a last effort, flung one arm forward while with the other he gripped the railing behind him to keep himself upright. A long shard of glimmering ice lanced outwards from the deck infront of him and the captain saw it too late, impaling himself so forcefully that the point tore out through his back. His eyes rolled back in their sockets, and though he tried to speak, all that came from his lips were dark trickles of blood. His axe slipped from his lifeless grasp and struck into the boards with a sickening crunch.  
Coughing up a dark gollop of blood, Ryos slipt down to one knee as his hand slowly slid from the railing. His breath came in short, heaving gasps, and the entire front of his tunic and right sleeve were soaked in blood. His failing eyes wandered over the scarred, ash-littered deck, seeking out Nioth Arz among the bodies. The SoulTorn's hollow black eyes met his searching gaze, a strange gleam in their depthless voids. What was it Ryos read in them: hatred?...resentment? He sighed as he collapsed forwards, a heavy shroud clouding his mind, and he let his pain-racked senses drift unresistingly into the empty embraces of unconsciousness.


End file.
